IBERKclEY 
LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
CALIFORNIA 


THAT  DOME  IN  AIR 


THAT  DOME  IN  AIR 


on  Poetqj  anti  tjje 


BY 


JOHN   VANCE    CHENEY 


.  .  With  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  ! 

COLERIDGE 


CH I CAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG   AND   COMPANY 
1895 


COPYRIGHT 

BY  A.  C.  MCCLURG  AND  Co. 
A.  D.   180; 


IOAN  STACK 


t 

31 


The  land  honour  and  glory  of  the  immortall  gods ; 
.  .  .  the  memoriall  and  registry  of  all  great  fortunes, 
the  praise  of  vertue  and  reproof e  of  vice,  the  instruction 
of  morall  doctrines,  the  revealing  of  sciences  naturall 
and  other  profitable  Arts,  the  redresse  of  boistrous  and 
sturdie  courages  by  persuasion,  the  consolation  and 
repose  of  tetnperate  myndes,  finally  the  common  solace 
of  mankind  in  all  his  travails  and  cares  of  this  transi- 
torie  life.  —  GEORGE  PUTTENHAM. 


504 


PREFACE. 


HE  matter  of  this  volume  was  pre 
pared  in  the  form  of  lectures  written 
from  time  to  time  for  various  audi 
ences.  Brought  together,  it  naturally  proves 
rather,  as  Byron  styled  the  "  Giaour,"  a 
"  string  of  passages"  than  a  connected  series 
of  papers.  Still,  the  ever-present  conviction 
that  poetry  is  always  poetry,  that  poetry  is 
of  great  importance,  that  there  are  laws 
governing  poetry,  and  that  these  laws  can 
be  and  should  be  familiar  to  the  people,— 
this,  perhaps,  establishes  sufficient  continu 
ity  to  warrant  the  issue  of  the  collection. 
Should  the  inspiring  conviction  stand  out 
too  roughly  at  times,  it  will  be  smoothed 
down  by  many  another  hand,  leisured  and 
skilled  not  to 

"leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess." 

J.  V.  C. 

CHICAGO,  October  6,  1895. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.  THE  RELATION  OF  POETRY  TO  LIFE,  WITH 

SPECIAL  REFERENCE  TO  RELIGION  .    .  11 

II.    RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 43 

III.  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 61 

IV.  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 91 

V.  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  .    .     .  116 

VI.     WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 127 

VII.    WALT  WHITMAN 144 

VIII.    WILLIAM  BLAKE 169 

IX.    WILLIAM  COWPER iSS 

X.    WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 207 

XI.    A  FORGOTTEN  VOLUME 218 


THAT    DOME    IN    AIR. 


THE    RELATION    OF    POETRY   TO    LIFE    WITH    SPECIAL 
REFERENCE   TO    RELIGION. 

|S  the  future  of  poetry,  as  Matthew  Arnold 
prophesied,  "immense"?  For  the 
answer  to  this  very  important  ques 
tion,  we  must  turn  to  the  past,  —  to  man,  his 
nature  and  his  needs  as  there  recorded.  If  the 
past  answers  that  poetry  has  been  of  immense 
influence  upon  the  life  of  man,  we  are  warranted 
by  the  stability  of  the  forces  operative  about  us 
and  within  us,  in  asserting  that  poetry  will  con 
tinue  to  be  of  immense  influence;  indeed,  we 
cannot,  with  any  show  of  reason,  come  to  a 
contrary  conclusion. 

What  is  the  answer  of  the  past?  All  that  is 
written  rests  on  oral  delivery,  —  tradition,  and 
the  tradition  was  poetry ;  that  is,  the  verbal  ex- 


12  That  Dome  in  Air. 

pression  of  the  fresh,  astonished  outlook  of  the 
child-man,  an  ardent  utterance  of  matter  instinct 
with  imagination,  addressed,  as  poetry  is  always 
addressed,  to  both  the  mind  and  the  heart,  to 
the  intellect  and  to  the  emotions.  Our  history 
and  our  literature,  sacred  and  secular,  rest  on 
folk-lore,  which  is  always  suffused  with  poetry, 
luminous  with  it,  and  on  minstrelsy,  which  is 
song  itself.  War-songs  and  hymns  of  praise, 
lyric  voicings  of  the  powers  and  processes  of 
nature  —  these  lie  at  the  bottom.  The  matter 
of  our  Hesiod  and  of  our  Homer  belongs  not 
to  them,  but  to  the  Hesiods  and  Homers  of 
others,  long  before  them,  singing  in  brightness 
so  far  back  that  it  was  to  the  gaze  of  ancient 
Greece  impenetrable  shadow.  As  has  been  ad 
mirably  said  of  the  gleaming  sea  of  fable  from 
which  they  drew,  "  [The  legends]  must  be  re 
garded  as  neither  being  the  inventions  nor  be 
longing  to  the  age  of  the  poets  themselves,  but 
as  sacred  relics  and  light  airs  breathing  out  of 
better  times,  that  were  caught  from  the  tradi 
tions  of  more  ancient  nations,  and  so  received 
into  the  flutes  and  trumpets  of  the  Greeks." 
This  sea  of  happy  imaginings,  rich  with  the  rose 
and  gold  of  the  rising  sun,  stretching  betwixt  us 
and  the  old  shores  of  the  unknown,  —  this  sea 
is  poetry ;  and  it  was  by  the  sound  of  its  waters, 
and  in  the  shine  of  their  waking  brightness,  that 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.        1 3 

the  records  of  man  began.  There  the  first  res 
cuing,  preservative  utterance  was  heard,  and  the 
far-off  music  lingers  still ;  yes,  and  it  shall  tremble 
on  forever. 

As  it  is  with  the  writings  of  the  Greeks,  so  it 
is  with  the  writings  of  all  nations ;  be  the  sub 
stance  sacred  or  profane,  —  is  it  not  all  sacred  ? 
—  be  the  form,  now  or  hereafter,  verse  or  prose, 
the  original  was  matter  of  imagination,  which 
always  speaks  with  the  accent  of  song.  The 
heart  of  the  older  portion  of  our  Bible,  as  of  all 
Bibles,  is  poetry.  It  is  not  the  priest,  not  the 
scribe,  that  holds  us  in  this  new  day ;  it  is  the 
prophet,  who,  massing  the  idyllic  and  lyric  tradi 
tions  of  a  past  voiceful  with  the  music  of  youth, 
and  touching  them  with  the  fresh,  fusing  fire  of 
genius  and  devotion,  sings  the  might  and  glory 
of  the  God  of  Righteousness.  Farther  and 
farther  we  may  wander  away  from  the  old  con 
cepts,  but  the  old  arc  of  glory  bends  overhead, 
unbroken,  and  the  old  music  sounds  on.  Ideas 
change,  but  the  first  heart-gleams  flash  yet,  the 
burning  early  words  keep  the  first  far-off 
splendor. 

Testimony  supporting  the  immense  importance 
of  poetry  in  the  past  comes  from  every  age  and 
clime.  Merely  mentioning  the  College  of  Pro 
phets  among  the  people  that  set  the  germs  of 
the  religion  prevailing  in  this  land  to-day,  let  us 


14  That  Dome  in  Air. 

turn,  for  a  typical  illustration  of  the  great  fact 
around  which  these  observations  cluster,  to  Mr. 
Edward  William  Lane  in  his  "  Selections  from 
the  Kur-an."  In  'Okadh,  he  says,  was  held 
yearly  a  fair,  where  gathered  the  merchants 
and  the  poets.  It  was  a  "  literary  congress," 
where  rival  poets  met  and  contended  for  the 
applause  of  the  people.  It  was  there  that  the 
language  was  built  and  purified.  "  It  was  there 
that  the  Arab  nation  once  a  year  inspected  itself, 
so  to  say,  and  brought  forth  and  criticised  its 
ideals  of  the  noble  and  the  beautiful  in  life  and 
in  poetry.  For  it  was  in  poetry  that  the  Arab 
—  and  for  that  matter  each  man  all  the  world 
over  —  expressed  his  highest  thoughts,  and  it 
was  at  'Okadh  that  these  thoughts  were  meas 
ured  by  the  standard  of  the  Bedawee  ideal.  The 
fair  not  only  maintained  the  highest  standard  of 
poetry  that  the  Arabic  language  has  ever  reached  ; 
it  also  upheld  the  noblest  idea  of  life  and  duty 
that  the  Arab  nation  has  yet  set  forth  and 
obeyed." 

The  gist  of  Mr.  Lane's  report  of  the  Arabs 
holds  true  of  all  civilized  antiquity;  from  time 
immemorial,  poetry  has  "upheld  the  noblest  idea 
of  life  and  duty."  It  has  conquered  where  all 
other  powers  have  failed,  it  still  conquers  where 
all  other  powers  prove  inadequate ;  and,  reason 
ing  from  both  experience  and  the  nature  of  man, 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.         15 

its  future  must  be  what  its  past  has  been, — 
"immense."  Along  all  lines  the  original  con 
ception  has  undergone  modification;  it  is  still 
undergoing  modification,  dictated  by  new  knowl 
edge  and  new  needs;  but  the  essential,  basic 
features  remain.  Greater  modification  yet  is 
inevitable;  still,  modification  it  will  be,  not 
radical  change ;  the  old  foundation  must  stand 
until  the  mind  and  heart  of  man  outgrow  them 
selves,  become  wholly  other  than  they  have  been 
and  are.  Until  that  time  radical  change  in  the 
place  and  power  of  poetry  is  impossible. 

Indisputably  language  strikes  its  roots  down 
into  the  primitive  soil  of  minstrelsy.  Now,  lest 
it  be  thought  less  evident  that  the  heart  of  our 
Bible  is  of  poetic  origin,  we  may  pardonably 
interrogate  a  Professor  of  the  Interpretation  of 
Holy  Scripture  at  Oxford.  Concerning  the  pas 
sage  from  the  story  of  Elijah  where  the  ravens 
bring  him  food,  Canon  Cheyne  says, — 

"Few  thinking  men  will  admit  that  the  verse 
which  I  have  read  expresses  a  fact ;  but  no  one 
formed  upon  Shakespeare  and  Milton  will  deny  that 
it  is  the  highest  poetry,  full  charged,  as  such  poetry 
always  is,  with  spiritual  meaning.  Why  do  we 
teach  our  boys  and  girls  Shakespeare  and  Milton? 
Is  it  because  they  need  amusement?  No,  but  be 
cause  poetry  is  the  symbolic,  and  if  not  always  the 
only  adequate  expression,  yet  the  most  universally 
interesting  expression,  of  the  highest  and  grandest 


1 6  That  Dome  in  Air. 

truth.  ...  At  each  step  that  we  take  in  the  story  of 
Elijah  we  are  enveloped  in  a  golden  atmosphere  of 
mingled  fact  and  poetry ;  this  is  an  elementary  lesson 
of  Bible-study.  Some  Bible-stories  are  pure  facts ; 
others,  and  those  the  most  delightful,  are  mingled 
fact  and  poetry  ;  this  variety  to  a  thoughtful 
student  is  a  part  of  the  charm  of  the  Biblical 
literature.  .  .  . 

"  There  was  once  a  great  man  —  his  name  is  pre 
cious  in  the  history  of  England  —  who  wrote  a  '  De 
fense  of  Poetrie.'  It  is  only  in  the  West  that  such 
*  Defences  '  are  needed  ;  Poetry,  like  its  sister,  Re 
ligion,  has  its  native  home  in  the  East.  I,  too,  stand 
here  to  defend  poetry  to-day,  —  the  poetry  of  the 
greatest  of  Eastern  Books,  the  Old  Testament ;  and 
I  defend  it  on  many  grounds,  but  especially  upon 
this  :  that  we  in  England  are  getting  too  old  in  sen 
timent,  and,  I  think,  even  in  our  religious  sentiment ; 
and  we  need  to  refresh  ourselves  at  the  fountains  of 
natural  feeling,  and  above  all  by  entering  more 
deeply  into  the  spirit  of  those  glorious  Scriptures 
which  have  come  down  from  the  time  when  the 
world  was  young." 

In  the  foregoing  quotation,  the  point  of  the 
poetic  origin  of  the  sacred  writings  is  put  none 
too  strongly.  Why,  indeed,  do  the  Scriptures 
keep  their  hold?  Why,  if  not  because  of  the 
"  universally  interesting  expression  of  the  highest 
and  grandest  truth"?  The  master  secret  of 
poetry  is  its  power  to  seize  and  keep  the  atten 
tion;  the  appeal  is  double,  taking  at  once  the 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.        \  7 

mind  and  the  heart,  enchaining  the  intellect 
and  the  affections.  An  old  Eastern  poet  is  re 
ported  to  have  said  of  himself,  "  Saadi's  whole 
power  lies  in  his  sweet  words."  There  is  much  in 
the  saying ;  for,  though  prose  may  have  the  sub 
stance  of  poetry,  it  can  never  have  the  music 
and  the  splendor  of  poetry,  —  the  supernal 
charm,  the  rapture. 

Our  Bible  rests  largely  on  poetry ;  and  as  our 
religion  rests  largely  on  our  Bible,  our  religion 
rests  largely  on  poetry.  Now,  if  the  world  has 
all  along  had  a  religion  resting  largely  on  poetry, 
we  run  little  risk  in  saying  that  the  religion  of  the 
future  will  rest  largely  on  poetry.  The  indica 
tions  are,  indeed,  that  the  world  will  rest  its 
religion  on  poetry  more  heavily  in  the  future 
than  it  has  rested  it  in  the  past.  Never  man 
spoke  truer  words  than  old  Homer's  where  he 
says,  "  Men  cannot  go  on  without  the  gods." 
The  future  of  religion  is  "immense";  from  this 
there  is  no  escape ;  and  poetry  is,  and  must  con 
tinue  to  be,  the  corner-stone  of  the  spiritual 
building,  —  which  is  but  another  way  of  saying  that 
the  future  of  poetry  is  "immense." 

As  Canon  Cheyne  phrases  it,  poetry  is  the 
expression  of  the  "highest  and  grandest  truth," 
not  the  highest  and  grandest  fact.  We  are  not 
to  cling  to  the  letter,  which  killeth ;  we  are  not 
to  believe,  when  reading  the  exalted  utterances 


1 8  That  Dome  in  Air. 

of  the  old  Hebrew  poets,  that  we  are  getting 
facts.  To  read  them,  in  this  belief,  were  worse, 
perhaps,  than  not  to  read  them  at  all :  "  Better 
be  without  the  Shu-King  than  to  believe  every 
word  of  it."  If  we  are  to  come  at  anything 
profitable  concerning  poetry,  here  is  the  place 
to  begin.  While  every  method  possible  to  eccle 
siastic  ingenuity  is  still  employed  in  defence  of 
the  letter,  which  destroys,  it  behooves  us  to 
observe  that  the  class  that  has  had  the  nominal 
control  in  religious  matters,  the  theologians,  has 
not  had,  together  with  the  contortions,  the  divin 
ing  power.  It  has  not  had  this  power ;  it  has  it 
not  now.  It  is  impossible  for  theology  to  have  this 
power ;  for  theology  is  the  science  of  religion, 
and  religion  is  not  a  science.  Religion  is  not  to 
be  scientifically  stated,  not  to  be  systematized  ; 
it  is  a  personal  experience,  differing  with  every 
human  soul  in  its  efforts  to  live  nobly  and  to 
commune  with  the  supreme  power  to  which  we 
give  the  name  God.  Theology  is  difficult, 
religion  is  simple;  theology  is  rigid,  religion  is 
elastic.  Theology  is  a  creature  of  the  brain; 
religion  is  the  native,  spontaneous  affection  of 
the  heart,  — 

w  All  that  has  been  majestical, 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, — 
The  angel  heart  of  man." 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.        19 

Here  is  the  fatal  mistake  of  theology  •  it  says 
it  knows  concerning  things  of  which  we  cannot 
know.  This  it  is  that  has  enveloped  belief  in 
the  mist  that  enshrouds  it  to-day.  The  doubt 
characterizing  the  present  time,  everywhere  mani 
fest  from  the  scholar  down  to  the  unlettered 
laborer,  says,  "  There  is  no  certainty  about  it ; 
the  scientists  in  matters  of  religion,  after  all,  do 
not  know."  The  recent  Religious  Congresses 
have  done  wisely  in  meeting,  not  as  fellow  theo 
logians,  but  as  brother  men.  Meeting  in  this 
capacity,  they  have  taken  a  step  forward.  They 
have  discovered  that  a  sincere,  well-meaning 
man,  whether  he  be  Jew  or  Gentile,  whether  he 
hail  from  Boston  or  from  Bombay,  is  not  to  be 
shrunk  from  ;  that,  whatever  his  faith  be,  he  may 
have  hope  of  heaven.  It  has  taken  a  good 
many  hundreds  of  years  for  theology  to  arrive  at 
this,  and  it  is  a  matter  for  general  rejoicing  that 
it  has  got  thus  far  on  the  road  of  charity  and 
brotherly  love. 

The  Religious  Conferences  have  added  a 
graceful  page  to  ecclesiastical  history ;  but  the 
sea  of  "  obstinate  questionings  "  sounding,  day 
and  night,  up  and  down  the  shore  of  thought, 
the  world  over,  —  to  that  great  ocean  voice  has 
come  no  answer.  Surely  were  there  an  answer 
to  give,  it  would  have  been  given.  Hence  it 
appears  only  plainer  than  ever  that  theology  has 


2O  That  Dome  in  Air. 

done  its  best  to  give  the  world  a  sufficing,  lasting 
religion ;  that  it  has  tried,  and  failed.  Why  has 
the  religion  of  theology  met  this  fate  ?  Largely 
because  it  has  taken  the  shell  for  the  kernel,  the 
husk  for  the  heart ;  because  it  has  read  the  fic 
tion  of  the  Bible  for  fact,  the  poetry  of  the  Bible 
for  exact  statement  and  history.  Because  it  has 
taken  glorious  outpourings  of  imagination  for 
positive  knowledge,  has  made  the  old  poets  over 
into  historians  and  scientists.  Men  of  this  new 
day  see  that  scientific,  positive  religion  is  a  con 
tradiction  in  terms.  They  see  that  the  theolo 
gians  are  the  last  folk  in  a  position  to  say  that 
they  know  the  things  whereof  they  speak;  they 
see  that  relief  must  come,  if  from  any  source, 
from  those  that  read  the  sacred  scriptures,  not 
as  science  and  history,  but  as  literature,  and  put 
forward  that  portion  of  them  which,  in  striving 
toward  truth  and  peace  and  joy,  soars  to  the 
skies  of  faith,  and,  returning,  says  no  more  than 
this,  — 

"  Lo,  he  goeth  by  me,  and  I  see  him  not : 
He  passeth  on  also,  but  I  perceive  him  not." 

Yes,  science,  having  come  to  its  strength,  has 
shaken  the  theologic  towers  to  the  ground,  and 
religion  returns  to  go  in  the  eternal  doors  whence 
it  came  out  when  the  world  was  young,  —  the 
doors  of  poetry.  Our  Bible,  with  the  other  half- 
dozen  Bibles,  is  literature ;  and  the  portion  of 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.        21 

this  literature,  aside  from  the  few  moral  precepts 
that  underlie  all  right  conduct,  that  is  essential 
for  spiritual  nourishment,  for  encouragement  to 
do  faithfully  and  cheerfully  the  work  of  life,  is 
largely  poetry. 

To  accept  truth  for  fact  in  matters  of  the 
highest  concern  to  the  human  soul,  is  a  serious 
mistake ;  it  is  a  fatal  mistake.  And  surely  it  is 
none  too  early  to  learn  that  the  splendid  imagin 
ings  of  the  Bible  are  not  history ;  that  its  winged 
aspiration,  its  celestial  melody,  its  breathings  of 
lamentation  and  of  joy,  free  as  the  wind,  are  not 
fixed,  rigid  statement ;  that  the  bulk  of  that  por 
tion  of  the  old  Hebrew  scriptures  found  most 
serviceable  for  spiritual  nourishment  and  encour 
agement  in  carrying  on  the  work  of  life,  is  found 
in  one  order,  for  example,  with  the  old  Greek 
scriptures ;  that  both  are  found  in  the  order  of 
poetry.  Not  that  these  two  old  scriptures  are  of 
equal  value  as  a  stay  of  religion ;  it  is  affirmed 
simply  that  they  belong  to  one  and  the  same 
class.  Take,  for  illustration,  two  extracts,  —  one 
from  the  book  of  Exodus,  the  other  from  the 
Iliad,  - 

''And  Mount  Sinai  was  altogether  on  a  smoke, 
because  the  Lord  descended  upon  it  in  fire  :  and 
the  smoke  thereof  ascended  as  the  smoke  of  a  fur 
nace,  and  the  whole  mount  quaked  greatly."  —  Exod. 
xix.  18. 


22  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  Kronion  spake,  and  bowed  his  dark  brow,  and  the 
ambrosial  locks  waved  from  the  king's  immortal 
head,  and  he  made  great  Olympus  quake."  —  Iliad, 
bk.  i. 

What  can  be  plainer  than  that  these  writings  are 
of  one  and  the  same  order,  both  pure  poetry? 
The  theologians  would  have  us  understand  that 
Javeh  actually  stood  on  Sinai,  and  held  converse 
with  Moses ;  while,  as  for  Kronion's  standing  on 
Olympus  and  talking  with  Thetis,  he  never  did 
any  such  thing.  The  theologians  are  not  apt  to 
stickle  for  consistency.  If  one  of  these  accounts 
is  history,  why  not  the  other?  We  have,  at 
least,  consistency  on  our  side  when  we  take  the 
position  that  these  records  are  simply  poetic 
flights,  to  give  us  glimpses  of  the  one  high, 
unknown  power  behind  all  life,  —  the  power  that 
the  Hebrew  poet  named  Javeh,  and  the  Greek 
poet  named  Kronion. 

These  extracts  are  rather  descriptive  than 
didactic ;  but  the  same  rule  of  interpretation 
applies  to  the  more  didactic  passages,  except, 
of  course,  those  that  lay  down  moral  principles 
in  straight,  unmistakable  prose. 

"  But,"  cries  one,  "  if  the  Bible  as  history  and 
science  is  done  for,  the  whole  building  is  fallen. 
If  the  portion  of  the  Bible  on  which  we  are  to 
lean  heaviest  is  fiction,  't  is  but  ruins,  rubbish ; 
away  with  it !  A  lame  crutch  indeed  is  dream 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.       23 

and  shadow."  No,  the  theology  is  fallen,  but 
not  the  poetry,  the  stay  of  religion.  This 
sort  of  dream,  this  sort  of  shadow,  is,  of  all 
supports,  most  strong  and  during.  We  cannot 
afford  to  throw  it  away  while  there  remains  a 
single  soul  that  reaches  beyond  itself,  that  strives 
to  solve  the  mystery  in  which  it  lives  and  moves, 
that  struggles  to  lift  itself  to  some  recognition  of 
the  infinite.  This  dream,  this  shadow,  is  the 
voice  of  great  souls  that  have  striven  in  the  years 
that  are  behind  us,  the  highest  of  all  voices  for 
counsel  and  comfort.  It  is  our  own  voice,  risen 
to  the  power  for  which  we  have  longed ;  it  is  our 
own  heart,  grown  large  and  valiant,  beating  on 
the  awful  wall  scaled  only  by  the  strongest,  brav 
est,  and  best  of  mortals.  Away  with  the  poetry 
of  the  Bibles,  of  our  own  Bible  in  particular? 
Never ;  therein  lies  our  chief  encouragement, 
our  chief  exaltation  and  joy.  Yes,  therein  abides 
sustenance  for  the  only  religion  safe  against  the 
assault  of  time,  satisfying  alike  to  the  head  and  to 
the  heart ;  the  only  religion  that  will  not  fade  in  the 
growing  day  of  knowledge.  But  take  the  Bible  as 
literature,  but  take  the  record  of  glorious  imagin 
ings  for  what  they  are,  the  sublimest  utterances 
that  the  ear  of  man  has  heard,  and  every  mind 
and  every  heart  must  find  sustenance  and  solace, 
find  strength  and  joy.  The  poet's  religion  is  a 
solemn  joy ;  nevertheless  it  is  a  joy,  and  the  only 


24  That  Dome  in  Air. 

joy  that  has  not  gone  out  in  the  gloom  round 
man's  pathway  since  first  he  took  up  the  burden 
of  life.  There  seems  to  be  no  way  of  escape 
from  the  conclusion  that  the  chief  stay  of  our 
strength  and  joy  is  now,  and  must  be  in  the 
future,  the  immortal  utterance  of  those  whom 
Plato  styles  "  the  children  of  the  gods,  the  poets 
and  prophets";  the  hallowed  song  of  those  that 
gild  the  few  simple  rules  of  right  conduct  with 
the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land,  that 
flash  them  into  the  heart ;  of  those  that,  keeping 
pace  with  the  increased  knowledge  of  the  years, 
set  these  rules  aflame  with  contagious  emotion, 
and,  mingling  with  them  loftiest  intuitions  and 
aspirations,  round  all  into  the  whole  of  supernal 
beauty  to  which  we  give  the  name  poetry. 

Religion,  from  the  present  point  of  view,  is 
not  only  beyond  the  domain  of  science,  it  is  also 
beyond  the  domain  of  prose.  It  deals  with 
matters  not  to  be  calculated,  not  to  be  scientifi 
cally  stated ;  matters  concerning  which  the  most 
that  can  be  done  is  to  throw  out  hints,  to  give 
expression  to  some  momentary  phase,  to  voice 
some  instant  yearning,  to  speak  for  the  sudden 
start  of  emotion,  the  rush  and  lift  of  feeling, 
vanishing  even  while  it  presses  and  rises.  Prose 
may  give  us  the  religion  of  figures  and  formulas, 
of  metaphysics  and  miracles,  the  religion  of 
theology;  but  this,  as  we  have  found,  is  the 
religion  that  no  longer  serves,  — 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.       25 

"  Ac  Theologie  has  tened  me  ten  score  tymes, 
The  more  I  muse  there-inne  the  mistier  it  seemeth." 

Very  different  is  the  religion  that  rests  on 
poetry  from  the  religion  that  rests  on  theology. 
To  adopt  it,  we  have  not  to  lay  aside  our  reason, 
have  not  to  subject  ourselves  to  the  machinations 
of  perverted  ingenuity,  to  torture  our  brains  with 
wandering  through  scholastic  structures  pillared 
on  the  wind ;  we  have  simply  to  be  our  best 
selves,  with  mind  and  heart  open  to  the  high 
voice  that  speaks  to  the  reverent  listener  in  all 
times  and  in  all  places.  The  poet,  ministering 
to  our  spiritual  need,  but  sings  over  in  our  ears 
the  noblest  thought  that  has  been  sent  out  into 
the  vast,  the  purest,  loftiest  emotion  that  has 
quickened  human  hearts  to  deeds  of  charity  and 
love.  He  does  no  more  than  hold  before  us  the 
grandest  experiences  of  life,  opening  to  us  the 
source  of  permanent  strength  and  joy  ;  consum 
mating  his  benefaction  with  the  highest  achieve 
ment  of  mortal  power,  his  suggestions,  shining  as 
the  stars  in  heaven,  of  Him  that  holds  all  things 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

"  Who  coverest  thyself  with  light  as  with  a  garment ; 
Who  stretchest  out  the  heavens  like  a  curtain  : 
Who  layeth  the  beams  of  his  chambers  in  the  waters ; 
Who  maketh  the  clouds  his  chariot : 
Who  walketh  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind." 


26  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Such  is  the  God  of  the  old  Hebrew  poetry, 
such  is  the  God  of  poetry  to-day. 

But  while  the  poetry  of  our  Bible  is  more  im 
portant  to  us  in  this  land  than  the  poetry  of  all 
the  other  Bibles  combined,  by  no  means  all  that 
may  help  us  to  lead  right  and  rounded  lives 
comes  from  Job,  from  Isaiah,  from  the  Psalm- 
writers,  and  from  the  Christ.  Not  a  little  matter 
that  may  help  us,  is  the  bequest  of  ancient 
nations  that  had  no  Bibles  proper;  not  a  little 
such  matter  is  the  bequest  of  pagan  antiquity ; 
for  much  of  the  teaching  of  pagan  antiquity  tends 
to  the  exaltation  of  beauty,  the  power  of  which 
is  eternal  among  men ;  and  no  inconsiderable 
portion  of  it  tend?  to  the  perfection  of  the  body, 
that  part  of  man  not  to  be  ignored  if  he  would 
have  his  steps  happy  while  he  walks  the  shore 
of  time.  Would  we  lead  full  and  happy  lives, 
we  must  look  down  as  well  as  up ;  the  gray  old 
earth  is  a  jealous  mother.  "Take  care  lest, 
while  you  are  watching  heaven,  you  lose  the 
earth."  The  mass  of  mankind,  whatever  course 
fanatics  pursue,  never  forgets  this  excellent  pagan 
maxim.  The  ethics  of  Christianity,  though  vastly 
superior  in  many  respects  to  the  ethics  of  pagan 
ism,  is  weak  on  the  physical  side,  on  the  side  of 
things  terrestrial  and  temporal,  especially  in  the 
light  emphasis  put  on  the  needs  and  privileges 
of  the  body;  therefore,  however  the  teachings 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.        27 

of  religious  leaders  and  the  histories  of  religious 
sects  may  read,  the  fact  remains  that  the  masses 
have  continued  to  live,  in  certain  particulars,  in 
accordance  with  the  teachings  of  paganism.  It 
could  not  well  be  otherwise  ;  for  Nature,  after  all, 
is  the  controlling  power  over  her  children,  and 
that  part  of  the  teaching  of  paganism  of  which 
we  speak  was  taken  verbatim  from  the  lips  of 
the  universal  mother.  The  religion  that  rests  on 
poetry  accepts  the  teachings  of  the  universal 
mother.  The  religion  that  rests  on  poetry  dis 
credits  the  Plutarchian  account  of  the  death  of 
Pan ;  and  in  so  doing  it  makes  a  strong  appeal 
to  man,  does  much  toward  winning  general 
acceptation. 

Attention  has  been  called  to  the  features  of 
paganism  that  survive ;  and  it  may  be  properly 
remarked  here,  that  the  features  of  the  Christian 
religion  that  actually  survive,  that  really  live,  and 
rule  the  hearts  of  men,  are  not  those  features 
with  which  theology  has  overlaid  and  darkened 
the  simple,  beautiful,  universally  acceptable  teach 
ings  of  the  Master,  but  the  utterances  of  the 
Master  himself;  the  simple,  manly,  wise,  and 
tender,  verifiable  truths  of  him  that  spoke  as 
man  never  spoke  before,  and  as  man  has  not 
spoken  since.  The  religion  that  rests  on  poetry 
accepts  these  utterances,  accepts  them  unreserv 
edly  and  most  warmly ;  for  they  lie  at  the  foun- 


28  TJiat  Dome  in  Air. 

dation  of  the  noblest  conceptions  and  aspirations 
of  the  soul. 

But  while  these  utterances  are  more  to  us 
than  the  best  utterances  of  paganism,  the  religion 
that  rests  on  poetry  cannot  let  go  all  the  teach 
ings  of  paganism ;  the  teachings  of  Greece  in 
particular,  —  the  Iliad,  the  immortal  dramas,  the 
writings  of  Plato.  Nor  can  be  spared  the 
teachings  of  the  old  pagan  race  that  gave  us  the 
^Eneid  and  the  orations  of  Cicero.  The  teach 
ing  of  Greece  and  Rome  lays  stress  upon  beauty 
and  upon  physical  perfection,  but  it  does  not 
stop  there.  "All  things  are  full  of  Jove  "  :  here 
Virgil  voices  not  only  the  belief  of  his  own  peo 
ple,  but  of  all  civilized  antiquity.  The  theolo 
gians  will  have  it  that  Greece  and  Rome  were  so 
godful  as  to  be  godless ;  the  people  will  not  have 
it  so.  The  religion  that  rests  mainly  on  the 
poetry  of  the  ancient  Hebrews  and  on  the  sim 
ple,  verifiable  teachings  of  Christ  will  not  have  it 
so ;  it  recognizes  the  worth  of  the  religion  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  There,  too,  it  sees  the  re 
liance  on  the  unknown  and  almighty  power  that 
lies  behind  all  things.  "  Fight  not  with  the 
gods,"  comes  the  warning  voice  of  Euripides; 
and  ^Eschylus  adds,  "  Rather  have  all  men  hos 
tile  than  offend  the  gods."  "  We  have  excelled 
all  nations  and  peoples,"  says  Cicero,  "by  our 
wisdom  in  this,  that  we  .have  clearly  perceived 


The  Relation  uf  Poetry  to  Life.       29 

that  all  things  are  governed  and  directed  by  the 
immortal  gods."  And  can  we  afford  to  forget 
those  words  from  Sophocles,  — 

L     "  The  man  whom  God  unto  ill  doom  doth  lead, 

Sees  and  is  blind,  deems  right  the  wrongful  deed ; 
And  brief  his  date  is,  and  his  doom  assured  "  ? 

The  religion  that  rests  on  poetry  adopts  the 
wise  saying  of  Theodore  Parker,  "  Nobody  is  as 
great  as  everybody."  It  accepts  the  combined 
wisdom  of  the  world  :  the  sacred  books  of  the 
ancient  East  are  its  inheritance,  and  every  utter 
ance  of  the  unbroken  strain  of  song  and  high 
philosophy  from  the  poets  of  old  down  to 
Shakespeare,  Milton,  Wordsworth,  Tennyson, 
Browning,  and  Emerson,  down  to  the  last  of  the 
master  voices  whose  melodies  were  our  delight 
while  yet  the  singers  were  alive. 

If  the  present  findings  accord  with  the  facts, 
the  masses  have  leaned  on  poetry  as  the  main 
support  of  religion  from  time  immemorial.  The 
reliance  has  been  largely  unconscious.  This 
may  well  be  the  distinguishing  point  of  differ 
ence  between  the  religion  of  the  past  and  the 
religion  of  the  future.  The  religion  of  the 
future  —  if  prophecy  is  pardonable  —  will  con 
sciously  rest  on  poetry.  The  theology  will  be 
eliminated,  the  sects  will  disappear,  and  men 
will  meet  on  the  broad  ground  of  poetry,  the 


3O  That  Dome  in  Air. 

only  ground  on  which  it  is  possible  to  unite  all 
interests,  to  bring  all  minds  and  hearts  into 
lasting  accord. 

The  religion  that  rests  on  poetry,  it  must  not 
be  forgotten,  rests,  of  necessity,  on  music,  on 
sculpture  and  painting.  Every  form  of  high 
imagination,  every  kind  of  noble,  lifting  expres 
sion,  must  support  and  swell  the  riches  of  the 
universal  religion.  All  great  art  is  the  handmaid 
of  genuine  religion. 

But  our  way  is  not  continually  on  the  hills  of 
religion.  Beauty,  in  and  for  itself,  is,  perhaps, 
the  next  necessity  after  religion  to  one  that 
would  get  the  most  out  of  life.  We  are  haunted 
by  the  ideal,  by  the  vision  of  perfection,  by  the 
high  dream,  the  lustre  of  which,  glinting  down 
at  fortunate  moments,  irradiates  the  common 
way  of  toil  and  care.  In  the  region  of  the 
beautiful,  the  perfect,  in  the  realm  of  ideality 
lying  between  man's  yearning  toward  God  and 
his  efforts  in  the  performance  of  the  humblest 
duty,  —  in  this  wide  region  poetry  reigns,  as  it 
reigns  in  the  realm  of  religion,  supreme.  Here, 
also,  it  is  the  ruling  power,  supplementing  faith, 
patience,  and  reverence  with  health-giving,  joy- 
giving  beauty,  spread  lavishly  as  the  sunlight 
is  showered  on  the  mountains  and  into  the  val 
leys.  The  significant  situations  and  experiences 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.        31 

of  every-day  life,  the  pleasing  phenomena  of 
nature,  are  here  woven  together  in  imperishable 
melody,  which  wells  up  hourly  in  the  hearts  of 
those  familiar  with  it,  dispelling  the  gloom  and 
softening  the  harshness  that  make  heavy  the  lot 
of  him  that  knows  not  the  "  divine  delightful- 
ness  "  of  song.  The  mind,  the  heart,  that  is  fed 
on  poetry,  is  conscious  of  a  perpetual  influx  of 
strength,  buoyancy,  and  courage.  The  way,  after 
all,  has  a  thousand  flowers  to  one  thorn,  has 
myriad  happy  airs  to  one  wail  of  want,  of  doubt, 
or  despair.  Poetry  doth  "  raise  and  erect  the 
mind."  There  is  something  in  the  very  move 
ment  of  the  words,  a  "  happy  valiancy,"  which 
invigorates  and  enlivens,  makes  us  strong  and 
joyous,  proof  against  the  harassing  little  hurts, 
the  stings  of  the  gnat- swarm  infesting  the  general 
air  as  we  journey.  Many  a  wayfarer,  in  need  of 
a  mental  or  a  moral  tonic,  would  rather  recall  a 
few  lines  from  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Wordsworth, 
or  Emerson  than  the  gist  of  the  longest  doc 
trinal  sermon ;  in  preference  to  the  battle-cry  of 
an  army  of  schoolmen,  would  have  for  martial  in 
spiration  one  perfect  utterance  aglow  with  the  gold 
of  the  morning  of  the  heart,  ringing  with  the 
music  of  eternal  youth,  the  music  that  only  the 
poet  can  wake.  Recall  the  farewell  scene  be 
tween  crested  Hector  and  Andromache  of  the 
fragrant  bosom ;  summon  before  the  mind's  eye 


32  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Helen  nearing  the  wall,  shedding  round  her  un 
speakable  loveliness  as  she  comes ;  look  on  way 
worn  Ulysses,  striving  to  clasp  his  shadowy 
mother  in  the  dim  Land  of  the  Dead ;  stand  in 
the  presence  of  Prospero  as,  laying  aside  his 
magic  cloak,  he  turns  to  that  whitest  embodiment 
of  innocence,  his  daughter,  and 'asks, 

"  Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  ?  " 

behold  in  Paradise  Lost  the  chariot  "  instinct 
with  spirit,"  the  wheels  set  with  beryl,  aflame 
with  "  careering  fires,"  —  behold  the  chariot  of 
the  Most  High  rolling  on,  bearing  him  that 
stepped  into  it  from  the  "  right  hand  of  glory  "  ; 
—  let  the  mind  fix  itself  for  a  moment  on  some 
one  among  the  thousand  thousand  splendors  of 
poetry  new  or  old,  then  name  another  source 
from  which  the  whole  being  can  catch  the  ex 
hilaration  that  it  gives,  can  take  the  sudden 
strength  that  it  imparts.  There  is  little  danger 
of  exaggerating  the  resources  of  the  poets  for 
strength  and  joy.  Those  souls  of  the  steadfast- 
looking  habit,  those  souls  that  see  so  deep  and 
wide,  and  tell  what  they  have  seen  in  heavenly 
melody,  —  what  hallowing  experience  escapes 
them,  what  vision  of  healing  beauty?  To  them, 
the  wind  harps  of  the  spirit,  belongs  Thomson's 
tribute,  — 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.       33 

"  Ah  me !  what  hand  can  touch  the  string  so  fine, 

Who  up  the  lofty  diapason  roll 
Such  sweet,  such  sad,  such  solemn  airs  divine, 
Then  let  them  down  again  into  the  soul ! " 

The  petrifaction  of  bodies  in  the  grave  is  rare  ; 
but  the  petrifaction  of  spirits  in  life  is  common. 
The  great  preventive  against  this  petrifaction  — 
is  it  not  poetry?  To  the  poets  —  with  the  poets 
are  included  always  the  musical  composers  —  we 
must  look  first,  not  only  for  the  highest  support 
and  encouragement,  but  for  the  gentle  ministra 
tion  that  is  our  consolation  and  joy  through  all 
the  vast  region  stretching  between  the  highland 
of  religion  and  the  valley  of  toil. 

Before  passing  to  a  few  closing  observations  on 
the  alleged  strife  between  poetry  and  science, 
a  word  should  be  said  concerning  the  mechanical 
theory  of  the  early  poetry. 

A  reason  commonly  assigned  for  the  use  of 
the  poetic  form  in  the  oldest  writings  is,  that 
certain  elements  of  it  —  alliteration,  rhythm,  and 
so  on  —  are  a  great  help  to  memory.  More 
than  this  should  be  said.  It  should  be  said  that 
tradition  was  embodied  for  preservation  in  much 
the  same  form  in  which  it  originated  because  this 
was  the  only  form  that  could  contain  it.  To 
divorce  the  original  substance  from  the  original 
form  would  be  to  divide  soul  from  body;  which 
3 


34  That  Dome  in  Air. 

means,  not  preservation,  but  destruction.  The 
native  voice  of  youth  and  imagination  is  song, 
and  song  it  must  remain  if  the  voice  be  not  lost. 
Beneath  the  mnemonic  expedient  lies  one  of  the 
profoundest  secrets  of  life ;  concerning  which 
Aristotle  throws  out  a  hint  where  he  asserts  the 
parallel  movement  between  sound  vibration  and 
the  pulsing  of  the  soul,  and  Bacon  another  hint 
where  he  says,  "  And  we  see  that  by  these  insin 
uations  and  congruities  with  man's  nature  and 
pleasure,  joined  also  with  the  agreement  and 
consort  it  [poetry]  hath  with  music,  it  hath 
had  access  and  estimation  in  rude  times  and 
barbarous  regions,  where  other  learning  stood 
excluded."  The  "  access  "  and  "  estimation  " 
won  by  poetry  in  the  beginning,  are  its  during 
inheritance. 

The  essential  features  of  poetry,  and  the  old 
need  of  it,  be  it  said  once  more,  remain ;  poetry 
endures,  however,  and  must  more  and  more  en 
dure,  under  new  conditions,  differentiating  it,  in 
particulars,  from  what  it  has  been.  The  old 
tones  will  sound  on,  but  the  strain  will  be  new ; 
the  imagination  will  move  in  the  old  strength 
and  splendor,  but  over  unbroken  ground,  along 
trackless  ways.  For  this  acquisition  of  territory 
the  advance  of  knowledge  will  be  responsible ; 
science  especially,  as  the  leading  force  of  prog 
ress.  The  old  poetry  was  given  to  prophecy; 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life,       35 

it  had  to  do  the  work  of  the  powers  of  exact 
knowledge.  The  new  poetry,  while  it  will  not 
cease,  on  occasion,  to  anticipate  the  findings  of 
science,  will  occupy  itself  mainly,  it  is  safe  to 
say,  in  warming  and  coloring,  in  transfiguring, 
the  findings  of  science  for  the  sustenance  and 
solace,  for  the  stay  and  delight,  of  the  world. 
Questions  religious,  social,  and  political  are  not 
now  what  they  have  been.  Poetry  recognizes 
this,  and  will  recognize  it  more  and  more ;  for 
perception,  and  pliancy  to  the  demand  of  the 
hour,  are  of  the  fibre  of  its  might.  There  should 
be  no  fear  that  science  will  destroy  poetry; 
poetry,  though  opposed  to  science  in  method,  is 
the  faithful  ally  of  science.  The  thoughts  of 
God  are  not  internecine.  The  master  forces  of 
mind  and  heart  are  never  at  war  among  them 
selves ;  step  by  step,  they  push  peacefully  for 
ward  together  toward  perfection. 

Wordsworth  foresaw  the  change  that  has  come, 
and  the  greater  change  in  waiting  :  — 

"  If  the  time  should  ever  come  when  what  is  now 
called  science  becomes  familiarized  to  men,  then  the 
remotest  discoveries  of  the  chemist,  the  botanist,  the 
mineralogist,  will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the  poet's 
art  as  any  upon  which  it  can  be  employed.  He  will 
be  ready  to  follow  the  steps  of  the  man  of  science; 
he  will  be  at  his  side,  carrying  sensation  into  the 
midst  of  the  objects  of  science  itself." 


36  That  Dome  in  Air. 

But,  says  one,  suppose  poetry  should  accommo 
date  itself  to  the  new  time,  should  operate  on  the 
basis  of  new  facts,  its  power  may  be  dispropor 
tionate  to  its  power  in  the  past ;  the  "  aeration 
of  the  understanding,"  now  attributable  to  poetry, 
may  be  attained  by  means  of  added  facts.  We 
have  no  reason  so  to  believe.  If  it  is  in  the  co 
operation  of  fact  and  art  that  we  find  the  secret 
of  the  immortality  of  the  Greeks,  we  can  hardly 
find  that  knowledge  will  reach  a  point  where  the 
art  of  arts  can  be  dispensed  with.  The  charm 
of  beauty  will,  of  itself,  preserve  poetry,  maintain 
it  in  the  old  position  of  supremacy. 

But  it  is  in  much  more  than  the  charm  of 
beauty  that  poetry  is  supreme  :  it  is  in  much 
more  than  the  charm  of  beauty  that  we  find  as 
surance  that,  whatever  changes  come,  it  will  hold 
the  old  place  and  power.  Poetry  deals  with  an 
order  of  truth  in  the  pursuit  of  which  art  has  no 
rival ;  it  and  the  parent  power,  music,  win  access, 
by  methods  wholly  their  own,  to  high  and  secret 
places  of  being  reached  by  no  other  ministrant. 
Besides  sharing  with  science  dominion  over  man's 
intellect,  poetry  holds  and  must  ever  hold  in  sole 
supremacy  his  heart,  his  soul.  Exact  knowl 
edge  may  not  hope  to  suffice  for  the  support  and 
solace  of  the  emotions,  of  the  affections.  Exact 
knowledge,  multiplied  a  thousand  times,  may  not 
hope  to  suffice  for  the  future  man ;  still  will 
weigh  the  heavy, 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.       37 

"  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears." 

As  science  brings  each  noble  task  to  a  noble  end, 
poetry  must  take  up  the  work,  and  carry  it  on  to 
the  perfection  that  assures  the  satisfaction  of  the 
whole  man,  —  of  the  brain  and  the  heart.  The 
brain  may  be  the  man, 

"  And  yet  when  all  is  thought  and  said, 
The  heart  still  overrules  the  head." 

They  of  the  Macaulay  kind  would  send  us  back  to 
barbarism  for  the  great  achievements  of  poetry. 
Not  so ;  the  first  of  powers  in  time  and  in  im 
portance,  it  keeps  its  early  hold.  The  mind  and 
heart  of  man  begin  in  poetry,  and  end  in  it ;  so 
is  the  circle  closed. 

A  recent  writer,  busying  himself  with  the  rela 
tion  between  science  and  the  aesthetic  judgment, 
says,  — 

"  The  fact  is  that  with  the  growth  of  our  scientific 
knowledge  the  basis  of  the  aesthetic  judgment  is 
changing  and  must  change.  There  is  more  real 
beauty  in  what  science  has  to  tell  us  of  the  chem 
istry  of  a  distant  star,  or  in  the  life-history  of  a  pro- 
tozoon,  than  in  any  cosmogony  produced  by  the 
creative  imagination  of  a  pre-scientific  age.  By 
'more  real  beauty'  we  are  to  understand  that  the 
aesthetic  judgment  will  find  more  satisfaction  in  the 
former  than  in  the  latter.  It  is  this  continual  grati 
fication  of  the  aesthetic  judgment  that  is  one  of  the 
chief  delights  of  the  pursuit  of  pure  science." 


38  That  Dome  in  Air. 

The  assertion  that  there  will  be  a  shifting  of 
the  sesthetic  judgment  has  been  anticipated ; 
but  the  quotation  makes  it  necessary  to  observe 
that  "  cosmogony  "  is  not  a  province  of  the  poet. 
That  the  old  poet,  passing  his  native  bounds, 
occupied  a  field  that  there  was  no  one  else  to 
take  at  the  time,  is  no  reason  for  judging  him  by 
his  work  there,  no  excuse  for  instituting  a  com 
parison  between  it  and  the  work  of  science  in 
this  new  day.  The  old  Hebrew  poet  —  he  may 
stand  for  the  old  poets  —  occupying  the  empty 
field  of  the  scientist,  did  not  take  possession  after 
the  manner  of  the  scientist.  He  entered  in 
search,  not  of  facts,  but  of  truth.  Says  Canon 
Cheyne,  — 

"The  so-called  cosmogony  was  not  meant  to  be 
taken  as  an  account  of  what  we  call  'facts';  it  is 
not  a  specimen  of  rudimentary  science  or  pseudo- 
science.  How  far  the  idea  of  natural  science  had 
dawned  upon  the  Babylonians  may  be  left  an  open 
question  ;  there  is  no  evidence  that  it  had  dawned 
upon  the  Israelites  in  Old  Testament  times.  A 
pious  Hebrew  writer  takes  a  semi-mythical  narrative 
current  either  in  his  own  or  in  some  neighboring 
nation,  and  moulds  it  into  a  vehicle  of  spiritual  truth. 
.  .  .  It  is  useless  then  for  the  experts  in  other  sub 
jects  to  depreciate  this  document  on  scientific 
grounds ;  it  is  the  underlying  spiritual  truths  against 
which  alone,  with  due  seriousness,  it  is  admissible 
to  argue." 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.       39 

For  the  "  real  beauty,"  and  for  the  real 
might  as  well,  of  the  old  poet  singing  before 
science  was,  we  must  take  him  in  his  own  field, 
a  field  that  yields  a  small  harvest  to  toilers  in 
cosmogony,  — 

"  When  I  consider  thy  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers, 
The  moon  and  the  stars,  which  thou  hast  ordained ; 
What  is  man,  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him  ? 
And  the  son  of  man,  that  thou  visitest  him  ?  " 

After  the  astronomer  has  spoken,  there  is  a  word 
left  to  say,  —  a  word  in  no  wise  conflicting,  but 
additional  and  important.  After  science  has 
spoken  its  word  of  analysis  and  explanation  of 
the  phenomena  of  nature,  there  is  need  of  a 
word  further,  —  the  transfiguring  word  of  the  poet 
concerning  the  Power  behind  the  phenomena, 
the  Power 

"  Which  shaketh  the  world  out  of  her  place, 
And  the  pillars  thereof  tremble. 

"  Which  commandeth  the  sun,  and  it  riseth  not; 
And  sealeth  up  the  stars. 

"  Which  alone  stretcheth  out  the  heavens, 
And  treadeth  upon  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

"  Which  maketh  the  Bear,  Orion,  and  the  Pleiades, 
And  the  chambers  of  the  south. 

"  Which  doeth  great  things  past  finding  out; 
Yea,  marvellous  things  without  number. 

"  Lo,  he  goeth  by  me,  and  I  see  him  not : 
He  passeth  on  also,  but  I  perceive  him  not" 


4O  That  Dome  in  Air. 

To  inquire  profitably  into  the  beauty  and 
might  that  the  poet  rears  on  a  foundation  of 
science,  we  must  come  this  side  of  Dante  — 
Dante,  who  mastered  and  bent  to  his  use  the 
knowledge  of  his  time — down  to  our  own  day, 
to  Tennyson.  Throughout  Tennyson's  music  are 
plainly  to  be  heard  the  undertones  of  science ; 
the  great  facts  recently  unearthed,  the  mould  of 
ages  clinging  to  them,  are  launched,  and  borne 
along  the  golden  current  side  by  side  with  the 
lightest  fancies.  The  laureate  had  the  advan 
tage  of  his  predecessors,  living,  as  he  did,  at 
a  time  when  science  could  become  a  basis  for 
the  superstructure  of  imagination.  We  turn  to 
him  first,  among  his  contemporaries,  because  he 
it  was,  in  particular,  that  nature  and  training 
enabled  to  seize  this  momentous  advantage  and 
act  upon  it.  The  use  he  made  of  the  new  stock 
of  knowledge  bears  out  the  belief  that  the  poetry 
of  the  future  will  give  no  inconsiderable  propor 
tion  of  its  force  to  the  quickening,  the  warming, 
of  fact,  to  the  kindling  of  it  into  the  mystic  igni 
tion  the  flame  of  which  the  soul  loves,  and  moves 
in  as  in  its  own  native  element.  Tennyson 
strengthens  us  in  the  conviction  that 

"  When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 
Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon," 

the  poet  will  give  liberally  of  his  strength  toward 
the   completion   of  the   victory   by   setting    the 


The  Relation  of  Poetry  to  Life.      41 

secret  in  transfiguring  words.  This  will  be  done. 
It  must  be  done  before  the  importance  and 
meaning  of  the  secret  can  burn  into  the  mind 
and  heart  of  the  world,  and  so  set  aglow  the 
general  life.  Hope  and  love,  with  the  voice  of 
music,  must  rehabilitate,  yes,  reshape  and  vital 
ize,  ignite,  the  fact  if  we  are  not  to  stop  with 
mere  intellectual  apprehension,  if  we  are  to  pass 
on  to  assimilation,  to  perfect  appropriation  and 
practice. 

Says  Professor  Shaler  in  his  thoughtful  little 
volume,  "  The  Interpretation  of  Nature,"  — 

"  So  long  as  learning  remains  in  the  shape  in 
which  the  investigator  leaves  it,  it  is  generally  use 
less  to  the  uninitiated  in  the  science.  It  is  only 
when  the  poet  does  his  work,  when  he  phrases  the 
truth  in  a  form  to  appeal  to  the  imagination  .  .  . 
that  the  public  has  a  profit  from  the  inquiry." 

"  Wait,  and  Love  himself  will  bring 
The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  changed  to  fruit 
Of  wisdom.     Wait;  my  faith  is  large  in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  end." 

Science  does  not  speak  with  this  accent,  nor 
does  it  add  this  final,  consummating  word. 
"  Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more," 

sings  the  same  poet,  with  the  great  facts  of 
science  in  mind,  then  adds  yet  again  the  con 
summating  word ;  so  do  we  move  on  to 


42  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good." 
Firm  is  the  faith  in  growing  knowledge ;  but  the 
end  must  be  "  rich  in  good."     When  growing 
knowledge  leads  to  another  goal  than  this,  then 
shall  it  be  thrust  aside,  — 

"  Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay  : 
Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men  ?  " 

The  immortality  of  life  and  love,  the  end  "  rich 
in  good," -  — these  science  itself  will  not  be  per 
mitted  to  violate.  At  these  its  authority  stops ; 
at  these  the  poet  makes  a  beginning,  puts  on 
his  prophet's  robe,  and  presses  hopefully  forward. 
Such,  roughly  speaking,  is  the  attitude  of 
poetry  toward  science ;  but  while  bearing  it  in 
mind,  we  are  not  to  forget  that  the  poet  has, 
beyond  the  power  of  summarizing  and  revoking 
the  knowledge  uncovered  by  others,  that  surpass 
ing  gift,  his  own  peculiar  might  in  original  in 
vestigation,  — 

"  The  poet  in  his  vigil  hears 

Time  flowing  through  the  night,  — 
A  mighty  stream,  absorbing  tears, 

And  bearing  down  delight : 
There,  resting  on  his  bank  of  thought, 

He  listens,  till  his  soul 
The  voices  of  the  waves  has  caught, 

The  meaning  of  their  roll." 


II. 

RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON. 

JHE  poet  Gray  complained  that  he  was 
neither  a  cat  to  see  in  the  dark,  nor 

_ an  eagle  to  face  the  sun  ;  not  a  whisper 

of  this  do  we  get  from  Emerson.     Cat  and  eagle 
are  mere  moles  to  him  who  says,  "I  am  a  trans 
parent   eyeball."       Emerson,    of  all   our   poets, 
sees;  be  it  noontide  or  twilight,  the  glance  is 
straight  and  piercing.      Not  only  does  he  see 
through  the  light,  but  he  absorbs  it,  "  illuminating 
the  untried  and  unknown."     Emerson's  mastery 
over  light  distinguishes  him  from  his  compeers, 
and,  coupled  with  his  ability  «  to  put  his  private 
fact  into  literature,"  gives  him  the  electric,  semi 
nal  strength  which  comes  first  in  a  computation 
of  his  power.     Sight,  imagination,  and  inspiration 
standing  foremost  among  his  gifts,  Emerson  was 
a  seer,  a  reporter,  a  mighty  applier  of  ideas  to 
life.     His  aim  was  truth,  his  mission  to  tell  us 
«  how  to  live  well "  ;  he  was  to  the  last  the  lover 


44  That  Dome  in  Air. 

of  youth  and  beauty,  he  was  a  receiver  of  the 
distilled  wisdom  of  the  ages,  he  was  virile  and 
benign ;  in  short,  he  could  make  a  brave  showing 
of  the  gifts  characterizing  the  great  poets  of  old. 
A  "redeemer  of  the  human  mind,"  sitting  there 
in  quiet  Concord  so  many  years,  he  was  in  reality 
as  much  abroad  as  at  home ;  host  of  the  great 
souls  of  all  time,  his  hand  was  on  the  pulse  of  his 
own  time,  to  the  needs  of  which  it  was  his  chief 
aim  to  minister. 

Emerson  sought  to  fortify  his  fellows,  to  sow 
in  them  the  seed  of  growth,  to  render  them 
stanch,  self-sufficient,  and  happy.  He  strove 
for  this,  and  the  striving  was  not  in  vain.  "  O 
my  brother,  God  exists  "  ;  "  Think  thy  thought  "  ; 
"  Hug  your  fact  "  ;  "  Let  us  advance  and  advance 
on  chaos  and  the  dark,"  —  the  utterances  came 
with  an  accent  so  new  that  life  quickened  at  the 
sound,  the  soul  took  on  strength,  character  re 
built  itself,  and  hope,  honor,  and  courage  were 
once  more  supreme.  Christian  and  Pantheist, 
Stoic  and  Epicurean,  Epictetus,  Saadi,  and  plain 
Yankee  commingled  and  etherized,  Emerson 
once  more  set  up  the  ideal,  and  Faith  had  again 
a  glowing  mark  whereon  to  fix  her  eyes.  The 
very  air  grew  generative  round  him,  and  from 
him  spread  far  and  wide  strength  and  beauty 
of  living. 

These  spread  round  him,  and  they  have  not 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  45 

ceased  to  spread.  The  strength  and  beauty  of 
living  nurtured  by  "transcendentalism"  did  not 
perish,  as  some  would  have  it,  with  Emerson  and 
his  immediate  disciples.  Science  has  been  busy, 
pushing  its  positivism,  but  it  has  not  crowded  out 
the  instinct  for  the  higher  life.  Science  has  not 
made  away  with  this  instinct,  upon  which  Emer 
son  set  so  much  and  which  he  so  strengthened, 
nor  has  science  sought  to  make  away  with  it. 
Such  is  the  fact,  though  we  be  as  long  learning  it 
as  we  are  that  seekers  for  the  truth,  however  op 
posed  their  methods,  are  always  friendly;  though 
we  be  as  long  learning  it  as  we  are  in  learning 
that  the  essence  of  poetry  is  its  practicality. 

Much  has  been  said  by  way  of  comparison 
between  Emerson  and  Carlyle.  It  is  not  neces 
sary  to  continue  this ;  but  one  point,  at  least, 
should  be  kept  in  mind  :  the  ideality  of  Emerson 
gave  him  an  all-important  possession,  —  "  im 
mortal  hilarity,  the  rose  of  joy."  The  abstract 
perfection  ever  before  his  eyes,  he  could  be 
happy;  whereas  Carlyle,  who  looked  to  see 
it  embodied,  was  doomed  to  vexation  and 
sorrow. 

Plato  and  Franklin  in  equal  parts,  poet  and 
man  of  affairs,  Emerson  is  our  one  great  teacher. 
Revise  your  facts,  he  says,  keep  pace  with  expe 
rience  ;  formulate  anew,  and,  with  the  watch 
words  honesty,  trust,  modesty,  valor,  press  on. 


46  That  Dome  in  Air. 

While  the  gist  of  the  message  is  not  new,  the 
temperament  and  the  presentation  are  so  rare 
as  to  establish  signal  originality.  These  are  of 
the  kind  that  "make  the  talent  trusted";  they 
betoken  the  oracle,  the  divinity. 

Emerson  was  elevation  —  and  consequently 
serenity  —  incarnate.  Strange  elevation  of  spirit 
seems  to  be  characteristic  of  the  family.  Dr. 
Holmes,  speaking  of  Charles  Chauncy  Emerson, 
the  youngest  brother,  says,  "  He  was  for  me  the 
very  ideal  of  an  embodied  celestial  intelligence." 
Carlyle,  recalling  Emerson's  stay  with  him,  de 
scribes  him  as  an  "  angel  visitant."  The  word 
"angelic,"  seldom  required  in  a  description  of 
mortals,  is  one  of  the  common  words  in  all  the 
talk  about  Emerson.  The  "angelic  "  impression 
was  largely  due  to  a  gift  of  temperament,  mani 
fest  in  the  seer's  manner,  in  the  light  of  his  eye, 
and  in  the  tones  of  his  voice.  He  did  not  have 
to  hitch  his  own  wagon  to  a  star ;  nature  had 
done  the  hitching,  he  had  but  to  get  in  and  ride. 
This  means  decided  individualism ;  and  singu 
larly  individual  Emerson  remained  to  the  last, 
though  wont  to  move  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  world.  "  Angelic  "  individualism, 
flowing  from  his  pen,  as  from  his  person,  gave 
everywhere  the  touch  of  the  extraordinary.  In 
dividual,  extraordinary,  Emerson  is,  even  in  his 
borrowing.  Come  the  matter  whence  it  may, 


Ralph    Waldo  Emerson.  47 

the  presentation  is  such  as  to  "  charm  down 
resistance."  ^ 

On  the  point  of  presentation,  let  us  take  first 
Emerson's  own  notion  of  the  poet,  and  see  how 
his  work  squares  by  it.  "The  poet,"  he  says,  is 
one  "  who  sees  and  handles  that  which  others 
dream  of,"  who  has  the  "  largest  power  to  receive 
and  to  impart."  "  The  value  of  genius  to  us  is 
the  veracity  of  its  report.  Talent  may  frolic  and 
juggle ;  genius  realizes  and  adds."  Emerson's 
might  is  our  "  largest  power  "  ;  of  it  can  we  affirm 
with  most  confidence,  it  "realizes  and  adds." 
Again  he  says  :  "  This  insight,  which  expresses 
itself  by  what  is  called  imagination,  is  a  very  high 
sort  of  seeing,  which  does  not  come  by  study, 
but  by  the  intellect  being  where  and  what  it  sees, 
by  sharing  the  path,  or  circuit  of  things  through 
forms,  and  so  making  them  translucid  to 
others."  __^ 

It  would  be  a  long  look  for  a  better  definition 
of  imagination.  No  man  can  so  write  of  poetry 
without  having  the  secret  of  it.  With  Emerson, 
the  poet  is  still  the  "winged  man,"  "inhabiting 
the  all-piercing,  all-feeding,  and  ocular  air  of 
heaven."  Elsewhere  he  adds,  "  Over  everything 
stands  its  daemon,  or  soul ;  and  as  the  form  of 
the  thing  is  reflected  by  the  eye,  so  the  soul 
of  the  thing  is  reflected  by  a  melody." 

"Melorly"  —  here  we  come  to  the  points  of 


48  That  Dome  in  Air. 

form  and  music.  Beyond  dispute,  Emerson  sees 
and  tells ;  but  has  the  voice  the  perfect  accent  ? 
Characteristics  that  militate  against  style,  whether 
in  prose  or  in  poetry,  must  be  at  once  admitted. 
The  thoughts  are  apt  to  stand  isolated,  or  in 
jagged  lines ;  nor  is  the  effort  of  the  reader  re 
duced  to  the  minimum.  The  ideas  do  not  run 
together  into  the  perfect  and  graceful  whole,  into 
the  delightful  symmetry,  that  stamps  a  work  of 
art ;  the  procession  is  halting  and  disorderly. 
The  receiver  is  everywhere  evident,  but  not  the 
maker.  Moreover,  Emerson  is  guilty  of  truisms 
and  paradoxes ;  he  is  impatient  of  discussion,  of 
analysis ;  he  does  not  care  to  face  his  opponent, 
he  is  not  willing  to  face  his  differing  self,  as  he 
appeared  yesterday,  or  as  he  may  appear  to 
morrow;  he  trusts  to  the  moment,  seeing  and 
saying  as  the  instant  reveals  and  prompts.  The 
utterance  abounds  in  "knots  and  stonds  "  ;  mystic 
riddles  are  stuck  in  many  a  chance  corner. 
Briefly,  indifference  to  all  but  truth,  wilfulness 
unpardonable  in  one  of  less  gentle  spirit,  is  some 
times  rather  the  staple  than  the  exception. 

For  these  reasons,  among  others,  Arnold  could 
not  find  Emerson  a  "legitimate  poet";  could 
not  find  him  either  a  great  poet  or  a  great  man 
of  letters.  There  is  no  gainsaying  the  fact  that 
Emerson  exhibits  grave  faults,  chief  among  them 
being  coherence  of  expression  so  slight  as  to 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  49 

deserve  a  no  more  substantial  term  than  atmos 
pheric.  True  it  is  that  the  thoughts  dart  out, 
one  after  another,  complete  in  themselves,  held 
together  by  invisible  links  of  the  spirit  only. 
The  essays,  as  is  well  known,  were  prepared  for 
the  platform,  —  the  place  where  Emerson  was, 
perhaps,  most  at  home.  The  method  is  that  of 
the  talker ;  and  despite  the  after-pains  to  make 
the  discourses  essays,  discourses,  platform-talks, 
they  still  remain.  And  as  with  the  prose,  so  with 
the  poetry  the  lyceum  method  continues  in 
control. 

Emerson  exhibits  grave  faults  as  a  literary 
artist ;  but  art  is  not  the  sum  of  human  achieve 
ment.  Compared  with  the  rare  gifts  of  Emerson, 
art,  all  but  the  very  greatest,  is  common  and 
cheap.  Arnold  recognizes  this  fact,  and  finds 
Emerson  of  "superior  importance,"  for  the  hour 
at  any  rate,  to  a  "great  poet,"  to  a  "  great 
writer,"  to  a  "great  philosophy-maker."  They 
must  be  very  rare  and  costly  qualities  that  make 
the  possessor  even  the  peer  of  a  great  poet ;  and 
in  such  a  case  we  are  not  surprised  to  find  that 
the  fortunate  one  is  important,  is  great,  not  by 
reason  of  qualifications  differing  from  those  of 
the  great  poet,  but  by  reason  of  certain  of  the 
very  same  qualities  that  go  to  the  making  of  a 
great  poet.  So  it  is  with  Emerson ;  he  is  the 
peer  of  the  great  poets  for  the  reason  that,  while 
4 


50  That  Dome  in  Air. 

he  has  not  all  the  qualifications  of  the  great  poet, 
he  has  many  of  them ;  and  is  in  these  so  rich  as 
to  compensate  for  the  loss  in  the  qualifications 
weak  or  wanting.  Sight,  imagination,  inspiration, 
skill  in  single  words  and  phrases, — these  are 
present  in  such  strength  as  to  hide  the  deficient 
continuity  and  musical  sustentation.  The  fusing 
power  is  comparatively  weak ;  but  impressiveness, 
wondrous  impressiveness,  is  possible  by  means 
of  single  words  that  fairly  burst  with  meaning, 
by  reason  of  phrases  that  spread  vistas  rarely 
opened  by  the  most  daring  dreamers,  the  master 
spirits  of  the  world.  Such  is  the  lift  of  spirit 
that  the  heaviest  fact  takes  wing,  and  we  find 
ourselves  following  it,  snatched  up  from  the  clod 
and  the  rock  to  float  in  the  ether.  The  pith,  the 
quintessence,  of  high  truth  is  served  at  a  mid-air 
feast,  in  the  dominion  of  the  enchanter.  The 
powers  of  condensation  —  another  word  for  ex 
pansion —  and  suggestion,  are  tried  to  their 
utmost,  fastening  things  impalpable,  most  eva 
nescent.  It  is  a  new  world,  and  we  are  new 
beings,  strangers  to  our  former  selves.  Strong  in 
heart  and  hope,  quick  in  spirit,  we  are  suddenly 
wise  and  satisfied,  safe  against  fate  itself. 

Surely,  if  the  matter  that  can  effect  this  is 
neither  great  prose  nor  great  poetry,  it  is  magic 
stuff  of  some  sort.  All  our  generative  intellects 
together  have  not  had  the  quickening  might  of 


Ralph    Waldo  Emerson.  5 1 

this  man,  who  is  neither  a  great  prose  writer,  a  great 
poet,  nor  a  great  philosophy-maker.  Ah,  but  the 
daemon  !  with  the  daemon  is  the  victory.  In  the 
journey  along  the  way  of  the  cloud,  on  beyond, 
where  the  mist  can  never  come,  what  homely, 
every-day  work  is  wrought,  —  work  close  and  sub 
stantial  as  any  possible  to  the  ground  !  Master  of 
the  practical  is  this  serene  leader  on  the  upper 
ways.  "To  him,"  says  Lowell,  "more  than  to  all 
other  causes  together,  did  the  young  martyrs  of  our 
Civil  War  owe  the  sustaining  strength  of  thought 
ful  heroism  that  is  so  touching  in  every  record 
of  their  lives."  Greater  victory  than  this  was 
never  won  by  a  great  poet ;  and  the  testimony 
touches  but  one  class  of  the  many  stirred  to  the 
depths  of  being,  roused,  strengthened,  set  on  to 
new  endeavor,  by  the  gentle  seer  with  the  daemon 
at  his  side. 

Though  Emerson's  place  is  with  Socrates  and 
Epictetus,  with  the  immortal  talkers,  still,  sharing, 
as  he  does,  with  the  great  poets  many  essentials 
of  their  greatness,  he  must  be  numbered  among 
them  also.  The  poet  is  behind  every  sentence, 
whether  of  prose  or  of  verse ;  and  it  is  the  poet, 
as  before  shown,  of  the  rarest  kind,  —  he  with 
the  daemon.  No  great  poet  has  ever  leaned 
harder  upon  the  invisible  powers  that  are  the  stay 
of  the  soul,  and  none  has  ever  been  in  closer 
communion  with  them.  Indeed,  here  is  to  be 


52  That  Dome  in  Air. 

discovered  a  cause  for  the  weakness  on  the  side 
of  art.  It  is  too  high  reporting  to  catch  more 
than  a  word  at  a  time.  It  is  not  a  gaze,  but 
a  series  of  glances.  Such  is  the  brightness 
of  the  light  that  the  eyes  are  closed  at  the 
end  of  each  sentence,  which  is  in  itself  a  com 
plete  vision.  Consequently  we  have  essay  within 
essay,  poem  within  poem,  these  linked  only  by 
the  mystic  continuity  necessitated  by  the  one 
high  source. 

"  Eloquent  in  trope  and  utterance  when  his 
vaulting  intelligence  frees  itself  for  the  instant," 
says  Bronson,  "  yet  see  his  loaded  eye,  his  vol 
leyed  period  ;  jets  of  wit,  sallies  of  sense,  breaks, 
inconsequences,  all  betraying  the  pent  person 
ality  from  which  his  rare  accomplishments  have 
not  yet  liberated  his  gifts,  nor  given  him  unre 
servedly  to  the  Muse  and  mankind."  Though 
we  all  recognize  the  fidelity  of  this  description, 
the  picture  is  not  complete.  In  the  verses, 
"  rammed  with  life,"  there  is,  besides  power,  both 
music  and  beauty;  there  js,  besides,  that  for 
which  art  is,  after  all,  the  only  name.  There  is, 
for  the  soul,  wholeness  of  impression  and  beauty. 
To  the  nature  of  beauty  Emerson's  own  words  are 
the  fittest  testimony  :  — 

"  The  best  of  beauty  is  a  finer  charm  than  skill 
in  surfaces,  in  outlines,  or  rules  of  art  can  ever  teach, 
namely,  a  radiation  from  the  work  of  art,  of  human 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  53 

character, — a  wonderful  expression  through  stone, 
or  canvas,  or  musical  sound,  of  the  deepest  and 
simplest  attributes  of  our  nature." 

About  the  lovely  radiation  of  character  there 
is  no  question,  and  this  must  not  be  left  out  of 
the  count.  All  the  detractions  admitted,  the  fact 
remains  that,  beyond  the  great  man,  the  great 
teacher,  Emerson  is  a  poet.  The  "  dearest  and 
gravest  ministrations  to  the  imagination  and  the 
soul "  are  to  be  heard  from  him ;  and  of  such 
are  pre-eminently  the  utterances  of  the  poet. 
His  attitude  toward  truth,  toward  youth  and 
beauty,  is  the  poet's  attitude.  No  other  man 
among  us  reveals  Emerson's  sympathy  with  youth. 
As  an  abstraction  it  is  ever  in  his  thought,  and  to 
the  last  his  favorite  hearers  were  the  young. 
"  Flowers  so  strictly  belong  to  youth  that  we 
adult  men  soon  come  to  feel  that  their  beautiful 
generations  concern  not  us.  ...  The  flowers"! 
jilt  us,  and  we  are  old  bachelors  with  our  ridicu 
lous  tenderness."  Close  is  the  sympathy  with 
youth,  equally  close  the  sympathy  with  beauty. 
"This  indescribable  beauty,"  he  says  of  Nature; 
"beauty  breaks  in  everywhere";  and  he  makes 
a  like  report  of  the  spiritual  world. 

The  reporter  of  truth,  youth,  and  beauty  must 
perforce  be  a  lover  of  Nature,  and  Emerson  is 
indeed  an  affectionate  son  of  the  Good  Mother. 
"  He  who  knows  the  most,  he  who  knows  what 


54  That  Dome  in  Air. 

sweets  and  virtues  are  in  the  ground,  the  waters, 
the  plants,  the  heavens,  and  how  to  come  at  these 
enchantments,  is  the  rich  and  royal  man."  If 
any  one  has  known  how  to  come  at  these  en 
chantments,  it  is  the  author  of  "  Woodnotes," 
"  Monadnoc,"  and  "  May-Day."  Such  is  his 
love  that  we  find  in  it  another  cause  for  the  in 
difference  to  art :  as  truth  is  more  than  art,  so 
Nature  is  more,  and  must  be  first  obeyed.  "  Na 
ture  never  rhymes  her  children,"  and  he  will  not 
rhyme  his  own  well.  But  Emerson  is  no  slave 
even  to  nature ;  he  will  not  "  camp  out  and  eat 
roots,"  he  will  not  be  a  woodchuck,  —  an  experi 
ment  to  which  Thoreau  was  sorely  tempted. 
Here,  as  everywhere,  he  is  sane  and  wise.  If 
"the  perception  of  the  inexhaustibleness  of  na 
ture  is  an  immortal  youth,"  if  he  finds  so  much 
in  the  ground,  he  nevertheless  holds  it  lightly,  in 
view  of  the  immense  promise  it  gives  of  posses 
sions  beyond. 

Though  in  Emerson's  case  we  do  not  look  first 
for  the  artist,  it  is  going  too  far  to  find  him  as 
much  a  poet  in  his  prose  as  in  his  verse. 

"  Now  we  learn  what  patient  periods  must 
round  themselves  before  the  rock  is  formed,  then 
before  the  rock  is  broken,  and  the  first  lichen 
race  has  disintegrated  the  thinnest  external  plate 
into  soil,  and  opened  the  door  for  the  remote 
Flora,  Fauna,  Ceres,  and  Pomona,  to  come  in. 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  55 

How  far  off  yet  is  the  trilobite  !  how  far  the 
quadruped  !  how  inconceivably  remote  is  man  ! 
All  duly  arrive,  and  then  race  after  race  of  men. 
It  is  a  long  way  from  granite  to  the  oyster ;  farther 
yet  to  Plato,  and  the  preaching  of  the  immortal 
ity  of  the  soul." 

"  I  wrote  the  past  in  characters 
Of  rock  and  fire  the  scroll, 
The  building  in  the  coral  sea, 
The  planting  of  the  coal. 

«'  And  thefts  from  satellites  and  rings 

And  broken  stars  I  drew, 
And  out  of  spent  and  aged  things 
I  formed  the  world  anew ; 


"  Time  and  Thought  were  my  surveyors, 

They  laid  their  courses  well ; 
They  boiled  the  sea,  and  baked  the  layers 
Of  granite,  marl,  and  shell. 

"But  he,  the  man-child  glorious, — 

Where  tarries  he  the  while  ? 

The  rainbow  shines  his  harbinger, 

The  sunset  gleams  his  smile. 

"  My  boreal  lights  leap  upward, 
Forthright  my  planets  roll, 
And  still  the  man-child  is  not  born, 
The  summit  of  the  whole." 

Here,  obviously  enough,  are  two  distinct  styles  ; 
and  if  one  is  in  doubt  as  to  whether  Emerson 
was  a  true  poet,  if  not  a  great  poet,  the  doubt 


56  That  Dome  in  Air. 

will  vanish  on  reading  the  remaining  stanzas  of 
this  same  Nature  song. 

Emerson  is  withal  a  lyrist ;  thinking  often  in 
rhythm,  he  sometimes  thinks  in  airiest  melody. 
As  about  the  man,  so  about  the  poems,  there  is 
something  celestial;  notwithstanding  the  blem 
ishes,  it  is  a  seraph's  manuscript.  The  faults  are 
those  of  the  habitat.  Arnold's  phrase,  "  a  strain, 
new,  moving,  and  unforgetable,"  does  not  tell  the 
whole  story.  At  least  one  third  of  the  volume  of 
verse  published  in  1846,  is  choice  poetry,  original, 
imaginative,  struck  out  at  the  bidding  of  the 
daemon.  Our  principal  literary  organ  at  the  time 
testified  to  the  appearance  of  a  genius  by  charac 
terizing  the  work  as  "  fantastic  nonsense,"  "  silly 
pedantry,"  and  by  calling  into  question  the 
author's  sanity.  So  it  has  always  been,  and  so, 
probably,  it  will  always  be.  "The  Sphinx," 
which  was  a  stumbling-block  in  1847,  is  a  stum 
bling-block  still;  but  one  stanza  of  it,  if  no 
more,  betokens  the  seer  and  the  sayer,  the  re 
porter  of  life  born,  not  made  :  — 

"  Up  rose  the  merry  Sphinx, 

And  crouched  no  more  in  stone ; 
She  melted  into  purple  cloud, 

She  silvered  in  the  moon ; 
She  spired  into  a  yellow  flame  ; 

She  flowered  in  blossoms  red  ; 
She  flowed  into  a  foaming  wave  ; 

She  stood  Monadnoc's  head." 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  57 

For  imagination,  and  movement  that  follows  the 
life,  this  stanza  is  a  standing  model. 

Among  the  poets  of  late  years,  Wordsworth 
only  has  matched  the  exceptional  excellences  of 
the  next  two  poems,  "  Each  and  All,"  and  "  The 
Problem." 

"  I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky ;  — 
He  sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my  eye." 

"Good-Bye,"  "Woodnotes,"  "The  Rhodora," 
"  The  Humble-Bee,"  "  The  Snow-Storm,"  - 
these  poems  lack  neither  fusion  nor  continuity, 
and  they  have  the  test  accent.  For  ease  and 
melody — weak  points  with  Emerson  —  how  many 
singers  have  surpassed  such  lines  as  these?  — 

"  Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers  ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure." 

The  longer  poem,  "Woodnotes,"  is  of  less  even 
excellence  ;  but  seldom,  indeed,  have  we  received 
so  exhilarating  an  invitation  as  that  summed  in 
the  line,  — 


58  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  Put  off  thy  years,  wash  in  the  breeze." 
The  day  it  was  conceived, 

"  'T  was  one  of  the  charmed  days 
When  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow." 

Strewn  with  those  happy  "  finds," 

"  As  if  a  sunbeam  showed  the  place," 
it  is  not  only 

"  Painted  with  shadows  green  and  proud 
Of  the  tree  and  of  the  cloud," 

but  it  is  odorous  and  melodious  with  breath 
"  Breathed  from  the  everlasting  throat." 

"  Monadnoc,"  if  not  so  thoroughly  suffused  with 
beauty,  bespeaks  the  sinew  of  him  whose  food 
has  been  the 

"  Best  of  Pan's  immortal  meat." 

Freedom  and  strength  swing  their  way  through 
it  at  a  pace  few  can  follow ;  the  air  is  tonic  at 
every  step.  More  than  one  has  asked  at  the 
end,  has  he  not  come,  —  the  bard  and  sage 
waited  for, 

"  Who,  in  large  thoughts,  like  fair  pearl-seed, 
Shall  string  Monadnoc  like  a  bead  "? 

"  Hermione,"  perhaps  the  loveliest  of  Emerson's 
poems,  filled  with  double  subtilty  as  from  the 


Ralph   Waldo  Emerson.  59 

spirits  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  this  spiced 
throughout  with  the  new  quantity,  Yankee  en 
chantment,  opens  with  the  only  lines  that  recall 
the  magic  of  the  Abyssinian  maid  with  her  dul 
cimer  ;  and  to  the  end  there  is  little  falling  off. 
It  is  enough  to  say  of  any  poet  that  his  music,  at 
his  best,  is  sweet  when  sounded  against  the 
melody  of  Coleridge.  This  is  true  of  the 
opening  and  of  other  lines  of  "  Hermione," 
and  it  is  true  of  the  closing  stanzas  of  "The 
House," - 

"  She  lays  her  beams  in  music, 

In  music  every  one, 
To  the  cadence  of  the  whirling  world 
Which  dances  round  the  sun ; 

"  That  so  they  shall  not  be  displaced 

By  lapses  or  by  wars, 
But,  for  the  love  of  happy  souls, 
Outlive  the  newest  stars." 

"  Musketaquid "  is  a  happy  bit  of  blank-verse 
autobiography.  And  so  we  might  go  on,  page 
to  page,  in  company  with  the  true  poet.  If 
"the  friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live 
in  the  spirit "  is  always  present,  the  poet  is  often 
beside  him.  Only  the  poet  can 

"  The  bird-language  rightly  spell, 
And  that  which  roses  say  so  well ;  " 


60  That  Dome  in  Air. 

and  only  the  poet  can  sound  the  depths  of  spirit 
struck  down  to  in  the  crowning  song  of  lamenta 
tion.  Emerson's  high  place  may  be  among  the 
immortal  talkers ;  but  let  it  not  be  forgotten  how 
much  he  did  to 

"  Bring  the  flown  Muses  back  to  men." 


III. 

JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL. 
I. 

THE   ESSAYS. 

]AD  Lowell  written  only  the  essays  on 
Dante,  Chaucer,  Spenser,  and  Dryden, 
he  would  have  proved  himself  the  most 
brilliant  and  intuitive  of  our  critics.  As  one 
closes  the  sixth  volume  of  the  essays  in  the  final 
ten-volume  edition  of  his  works,  one  blinks  as  if 
at  a  pile  of  opals.  We  chance  first  upon  the 
author  at  sea  :  — 

"  But  what  say  you  to  a  twelve  days'  calm  such 
as  we  dozed  through  in  mid-Atlantic  and  in  mid- 
August?  I  know  nothing  so  tedious  at  once  and 
exasperating  as  that  regular  slap  of  the  wilted  sails 
when  the  ship  rises  and  falls  with  the  slow  breathing 
of  the  sleeping  sea,  one  greasy,  brassy  swell  follow 
ing  another,  slow,  smooth,  immitigable  as  the  series 
of  Wordsworth's  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets.  Even  at 
his  best,  Neptune,  in  a  tete-a-tete,  has  a  way  of  re- 


62  That  Dome  in  Air. 

peating  himself,  an  obtuseness  to  the  ne  quid  minis, 
that  is  stupefying.  It  reminds  me  of  organ-music 
and  my  good  friend  Sebastian  Bach.  A  fugue  or 
two  will  do  very  well;  but  a  concert  made  up  of 
nothing  else  is  altogether  too  epic  for  me.  There 
is  nothing  so  desperately  monotonous  as  the  sea, 
and  I  no  longer  wonder  at  the  cruelty  of  pirates. 
F^ncy  an  existence  in  which  the  coming  up  of  a 
cliimsy  finback  whale,  who  says  Pooh!  to  you 
solemnly  as  you  lean  over  the  taffrail,  is  an  event 
as  exciting  as  an  election  on  shore  !  The  damp 
ness  seems  to  strike  into  the  wits  as  into  the  lucifer- 
matches,  so  that  one  may  scratch  a  thought  half  a 
dozen  times  and  get  nothing  at  last  but  a  faint 
sputter,  the  forlorn  hope  of  fire,  which  only  goes 
far  enough  to  leave  a  sense  of  suffocation  behind  it. 
Even  smoking  becomes  an  employment  instead  of  a 
solace." 

Here  are  genuine  opals;  and  the  wondrous,  if 
somewhat  "unlucky,"  stones  are  poured  into  our 
lap  by  the  basketful.  Whether  in  the  jottings 
of  a  journey  or  in  the  steady  effort  of  criticism, 
it  is  always  the  gleam,  the  flash,  peculiar  to  this 
radiant  man  of  letters,  ever  the  brightness  and 
the  surprise.  Take  up  any  volume,  and  we  are 
off  for  a  holiday  with  a  bonfire  in  the  evening. 
And  an  all-night  bonfire  it  will  be,  where  learn 
ing,  now  of  the  ploughman,  now  of  the  scholar, 
and  observation  wide  and  keen,  furnish  the  fuel, 
while  wit  and  satire  vie  with  the  purest  Yankee 


James  Russell  Lowell.  63 

humor  as  to  which  shall  make  the  bravest  spurt 
in  the  general  conflagration.  There  is  no 
moment  too  sober  for  a  stealthy  glint :  — 

"  He  [Wordsworth]  went  quietly  over  to  Ger 
many  to  write  more  Lyrical  Ballads,  and  to  begin 
a  poem  on  the  growth  of  his  own  mind,  at  a  time 
when  there  were  only  two  men  in  the  world  (him 
self  and  Coleridge)  who  were  aware  that  he  had  one 
in  any  wise  differing  from  those,  mechanically  uni 
form,  which  are  stuck  drearily,  side  by  side,  in  the 
great  pin-paper  of  society." 

In  the  author's  own  words,  "everything  grows 
fresh  under  his  hand  "  ;  staleness  is  impossible. 
But  fond  as  he  is  of  fine  phrases,  Lowell  is  no 
"  mere  lackey  "  to  them  ;  as  ready  as  Montaigne, 
he  is  also  as  wise.  The  first  seven  pages  in  his 
essay  on  Carlyle  evidence  the  breadth  of  mind, 
the  knowledge,  the  insight,  that  go  to  the  equip 
ment  of  an  all-round  man  of  letters;  and  ere 
long  he  strikes  to  the  heart  of  his  subject  in  a 
single  sentence, — 

"  With  a  conceptive  imagination  vigorous  beyond 
any  in  his  generation,  with  a  mastery  of  language 
equalled  only  by  the  greatest  poets,  he  wants  alto 
gether  the  plastic  imagination,  the  shaping  faculty, 
which  would  have  made  him  a  poet  in  the  highest 
sense.  He  is  a  preacher  and  a  prophet,  —  anything 
you  will,  —  but  an  artist  he  is  not,  and  never  can 
be." 


64  That  Dome  in  Air. 

The  shaping-power  of  imagination  is  again 
touched  on  where  he  speaks  of  Lamb  in  the 
essay,  "  Shakespeare  Once  More,"  — 

"  Himself  a  fragmentary  writer,  he  had  more  sym 
pathy  with  imagination  where  it  gathers  into  the 
intense  focus  of  passionate  phrase  than  with  that 
higher  form  of  it,  where  it  is  the  faculty  that  shapes, 
gives  unity  of  design  and  balanced  gravitation  of 
parts.  And  yet  it  is  only  this  higher  form  of  it 
which  can  unimpeachably  assure  to  any  work  the 
dignity  and  permanence  of  a  classic ;  for  it  results 
in  that  exquisite  something  called  Style,  which,  like 
the  grace  of  perfect  breeding,  everywhere  pervasive 
and  nowhere  emphatic,  makes  itself  felt  by  the  skill 
with  which  it  effaces  itself,  and  masters  us  at  last 
with  a  sense  of  indefinable  completeness.  On  a  lower 
plane  we  may  detect  it  in  the  structure  of  a  sentence, 
in  the  limpid  expression  that  implies  sincerity  of 
thought;  but  it  is  only  where  it  combines  and 
organizes,  where  it  eludes  observation  in  particulars 
to  give  the  rarer  delight  of  perfection  as  a  whole, 
that  it  belongs  to  art." 

And  who  has  spoken  better  on  the  point  of 
imitation  of  the  Greeks?  — 

"  Do  we  show  our  appreciation  of  the  Greeks  most 
wisely  in  attempting  the  mechanical  reproduction  of 
their  forms,  or  by  endeavoring  to  comprehend  the 
thoughtful  spirit  of  full-grown  manhood  in  which 
they  wrought,  to  kindle  ourselves  by  the  emulation 
of  it,  and  to  bring  it  to  bear  with  all  its  plastic  force 


James  Russell  Lowell.  65 

upon  our  wholly  new  conditions  of  life  and  thought  ? 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  question  is  answered  by  the 
fact,  patent  in  the  history  of  all  the  fine  arts,  that 
every  attempt  at  reproducing  a  bygone  excellence 
by  external  imitation  of  it,  or  even  by  applying  the 
rules  which  analytic  criticism  has  formulated  from 
the  study  of  it,  has  resulted  in  producing  the  arti 
ficial,  and  not  the  artistic.  That  most  subtile  of 
all  essences  in  physical  organization,  which  eludes 
chemist,  anatomist,  microscopist,  the  life,  is  in 
aesthetics  not  less  shy  of  the  critic,  and  will  not 
come  forth  in  obedience  to  his  most  learned  spells, 
for  the  very  good  reason  that  it  cannot,  because  in 
all  works  of  art  it  is  the  joint  product  of  the  artist 
and  of  the  time." 

There  is  no  question  as  to  the  genuineness  of 
such  criticism ;  and  the  six  volumes  are  freighted 
with  it,  agleam,  moreover,  with  the  coruscation 
of  wit  and  humor,  of  imagination  and  fancy. 
Only  with  this  equipment  plainly  before  us  can 
we  understand  how  it  was  that,  besides  being  a 
wit,  a  satirist,  a  moralist,  a  critic,  the  same  man 
could  be  poet  not  only,  but  statesman  and  diplo 
matist.  As  it  is,  we  are  ready  to  believe  that  he 
could  run  every  octave  possible  to  the  gamut  of 
cleverness ;  the  very  thing,  indeed,  that  he  did. 

"  He  [Milton]  seems  always  to  start  full-sail ;  the 
wind  and  tide  always  serve  ;  there  is  never  any  flut 
tering  of  the  canvas.     In  this  he  offers  a  striking 
contrast  with  Wordsworth,  who  has  to  go  through 
5 


66  That  Dome  in  Air. 

with  a  great  deal  of  yo-heave-ohing  before  he  gets 
under  way. 

"  Since  Dante,  no  one  had  stood  on  these  visiting 
terms  with  heaven." 

When  we  think  of  Lowell,  this  is  the  sort  of 
expression  first  in  mind,  for  it  is  of  the  marrow 
of  the  man  ;  it  is  the  second  thought  that  passes 
on  to  the  strength  of  certain  of  the  essays  as  a 
whole,  such  essays  as  those  on  Dante,  Chaucer, 
and  Spenser  in  the  realm  of  letters,  and  on 
Democracy  in  the  remote  realm  of  politics. 

Appreciating  the  masterly  quality  of  the  essays, 
the  brilliance  and  the  strength ;  admitting  Lowell 
to  be  the  only  man  of  his  time  that  could  write 
them,  granting  him  the  many  gifts  that  have 
brought  him  homage  from  the  literary  class,  — 
why  has  not  his  influence  for  culture  spread 
wider  and  deeper?  Two  things  seem  clear, — 
one,  that  his  influence  for  culture  is  greatly  dis 
proportionate  to  his  gifts ;  another,  that  what  is 
new  in  his  criticism  lies  mainly  in  the  manner  of 
presentation.  It  is  well  worth  while  to  try  to  as 
certain  why  the  manner  of  presentation  has  not,  in 
the  present  instance,  drawn  all  men.  It  can  be 
accounted  for  somewhat,  perhaps,  by  the  thought 
that,  well  stored  as  Lowell  was,  he  erred  in  trust 
ing  rather  to  his  own  resources  than  to  the  font 
of  the  ages.  Quick,  sure  as  the  intuition  may 


James  Russell  Lowell.  67 

be,  it  is  hardly  safe  to  pit  it  against  the  cumula 
tive  wealth  of  time.  The  old  self-method  can 
hardly  hold  its  own,  in  any  hands,  against  the 
modern  method  of  the  many,  the  method  of 
science.  If  Lowell's  powers  were  more  dazzling 
than  those  of  Arnold,  they  cannot  have  been  so 
well  guided ;  for  the  two  sowed  the  same 
field,  and  it  is  Arnold's  seed  that  is  now  growing. 
Perhaps  Lowell  was  handicapped  by  the  munifi 
cence  of  his  equipment,  by  a  superabundance  of 
scintillating  matter,  the  very  burning  of  which 
darkened  the  theme.  Perhaps  this  glowing 
mind,  so  bright  in  itself,  was  beguiled,  at  times, 
into  lack  of  reverence  for  the  milder  but  more 
enduring  light  of  certain  of  his  fellow- workers, 
and  even  for  the  steadfast  beams  of  the  high 
star  of  art.  Wit  and  humor  are  reactionary; 
oddly  enough,  tempting  the  possessor  to  take 
some  things  too  seriously,  and,  not  last  among 
them,  himself.  Certain  it  is  that,  squared  by 
his  own  rules,  Lowell  was  defective,  as  an  artist, 
both  in  his  prose  and  in  his  poetry.  Brought  to 
the  standard  he  supported,  he  hardly  illustrated 
the  primal  power  of  construction,  and  he  was  not 
impeccable  in  minor  points  of  technics.  In 
fact,  despite  his  persistent  humor,  he  could,  on 
occasion,  violate  the  laws  of  taste.  While  humor 
keeps  a  wholesome  watch  on  taste,  it  is  capable 
of  assaulting  its  own  ward.  It  performs  that 


68  That  Dome  in  Air. 

unnatural  office,  for  instance,  where  princely 
Goethe  is  put  in  the  role  of  a  milkmaid,  pail  in 
hand,  carefully  working  Herr  Bottiger  into  a 
corner.  Indiscriminate  humor  is  belittling; 
and  no  combination  of  Celtic  speed  and  zest, 
of  Yankee  shrewdness  and  snap,  and  full  and 
ready  scholarship  can  atone  for  the  tendency  to 
lower  high  persons  and  things  to  the  level  of  the 
ignoble.  This  is  flatly  opposed  to  the  endeavor 
of  the  poet,  and  of  the  true  critic,  who  studies 
the  poet  in  order  to  make  the  best  of  him  for 
the  bettering  of  the  world.  One  hesitates  to 
say  that  the  question,  "  What  will  nourish  us  in 
growth  toward  perfection  ?"  was  the  mainspring 
of  Lowell's  critical  work.  It  was  the  mainspring 
of  Arnold's  critical  work ;  and  this,  together 
with  his  remembrance  of  Bacon's  warning,  to 
seek  rather  what  should  be  thought  than  what 
can  be  said,  is  sufficient  largely  to  account  for 
the  richer  harvest  garnered  by  the  Englishman. 
Arnold,  as  fond  of  a  fine  phrase  as  Lowell  and 
as  capable  of  turning  it,  tries  the  propriety  of 
its  use  by  a  Wordsworthian  seriousness ;  Lowell 
is  wont  not  to  stop  for  this.  Here  is  one  differ 
ence  between  these  two  writers,  and  it  is  a  wide 
and  pregnant  disparity.  Because  of  this  dis 
parity,  perhaps,  more  than  for  another  reason, 
Arnold's  dozen  pages  on  Milton  outweigh 
Lowell's  five  dozen.  When  Lowell  is  finally 


James  Russell  Lowell.  69 

through  with  his  inimitable  bantering  of  Professor 
Masson,  he  says  true  and  noble  things ;  but  he 
stops  with  a  portrayal  of  his  hero,  satisfied,  with 
out  a  word  of  solemn  rejoicing  because  of  our 
inheritance  from  him,  the  inheritance  that  nour 
ishes  in  growth  toward  perfection.  We  miss  the 
rich  conclusion  of  De  Quincey  :  "  Milton  is  not 
an  author  among  authors,  or  a  poet  among  poets, 
but  a  power  among  powers."  Lowell  leaves 
before  us  the  noblest  of  portraits,  — 

"  But  it  is  idle  to  talk  of  the  loneliness  of  one  the 
habitual  companions  of  whose  mind  were  the  Past 
and  Future.  I  always  seem  to  see  him  leaning  in 
his  blindness,  a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  each,  sure 
that  the  one  will  guard  the  song  which  the  other  had 
inspired." 

This  could  not  be  bettered  so  far  as  concerns 
Milton,  but  to  be  sure  of  getting  the  thing  that 
concerns  us,  we  turn  to  Arnold,  — 

"  All  the  Anglo-Saxon  contagion,  all  the  flood  of 
Anglo-Saxon  commonness,  beats  vainly  against  the 
great  style,  but  cannot  shake  it,  and  has  to  accept  its 
triumph.  But  it  triumphs  in  Milton,  in  one  of  our 
own  race,  tongue,  faith,  and  morals.  Milton  has 
made  the  great  style  no  longer  an  exotic  here  ;  he 
has  made  it  an  inmate  amongst  us,  a  leaven,  and  a 
power.  Nevertheless  he,  and  his  hearers  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  are  English,  and  will  remain 
English,  — 

4  Sermonem  Ausonii  patrium  moresque  tenebunt.' 


/o  That  Dome  in  Air. 

The  English  race  overspreads  the  world,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  ideal  of  an  excellence  the  most  high 
and  the  most  rare  abides  a  possession  with  it 
forever." 

As  we  lay  aside  these  ten  volumes,  the  indis 
putable  evidence  of  mental  endowment  in  cer 
tain  respects  the  most  encouraging  developed 
among  us,  our  pride  is  tempered  by  unwelcome 
reflections.  Lowell,  despite  the  rare  mental 
endowment,  despite  the  support  of  health, 
wealth,  arid  a  long  lease  of  years,  was  not  always 
abreast  with  the  best  thought  or  with  the  best 
methods  of  his  time.  Such  was  the  case  so  far 
as  concerns  his  criticism  of  poetry.  He  had  a 
loose  hold  on  the  essential  truth  that  the  "  office 
of  poetry  in  the  modern  world  is  still  its  ancient 
office  of  deliverance " ;  he  did  not  offer  the 
sacrifice  Sainte-Beuve  was  glad  to  offer  on  the 
altar  of  song ;  he  did  not  cultivate  the  patience, 
the  sobriety  of  Arnold.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  neither  of  these  critics  yields  to  him  in  the 
stress  put  upon  the  artistic  element ;  they  pressed 
as  far  as  he  up  the  path  of  art,  but  refused  to 
rest  content  there.  Yes,  ours  is  a  tempered 
pride  ;  for,  compared  with  the  work  of  the  few 
with  whom  the  author's  high  gifts  place  him,  we 
can  hardly  claim  for  much  of  the  matter  of  the 
essays  on  the  poets  and  the  men  of  letters  more 
than  unique  and,  at  times,  amazing  entertain 
ment  for  the  literary  class. 


James  Russell  Lowell.  71 

In  this  unwelcome  reflection  is  to  be  heard 
a  voice  of  warning  which  should  not  pass 
unheeded.  Criticism,  like  poetry,  is  a  hard 
thing,  demanding  beyond  the  most  brilliant  gifts 
the  "  dedicated  spirit."  "  Temper  destroys  it, 
a  crotchet  destroys  it,  even  erudition  may 
destroy  it.  To  press  to  the  sense  of  the  thing 
itself  with  which  one  is  dealing,  not  to  go  off  on 
some  collateral  issue  about  the  thing,  is  the  hard 
est  matter  in  the  world." 

Poetry  herself  adds  the  final  word,  — 

"  When  your  eyes  have  done  their  part, 
Thought  must  length  it  in  the  hart." 


II. 

THE    POEMS. 

Now,  as  we  turn  to  the  first  of  the  four  vol 
umes  of  verse,  let  us  adopt  the  simple  plan  of 
noting  down  the  impressions  got  from  gleaning 
through  it  at  a  sitting.  The  first  lines  to  attract 
special  attention  are  to  be  found  on  the  thir 
teenth  page,  the  first  stanza  of  "  With  a  Pressed 
Flower,"— 

"  This  little  blossom  from  afar 
Hath  come  from  other  lands  to  thine  ; 
For,  once,  its  white  and  drooping  star 
Could  see  its  shadow  in  the  Rhine." 


72  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Though  this  poem  of  six  stanzas  is  well  wrought 
throughout,  the  first  stanza  is,  perhaps,  the 
choicest. 

The  next  halting-place  is  at  the  lines,  "  To 
Perdita,  Singing,"  on  page  23,  — 

"  Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain, 

Leaping  up  in  clear  moonshine  ; 
Silver,  silver,  ever  mounting, 
Ever  sinking, 
Without  thinking, 
To  that  brimful  heart  of  thine. 
Every  sad  and  happy  feeling, 
Thou  hast  had  in  Bygone  years, 
Through  thy  lips  comes  stealing,  stealing, 

Clear  and  low ; 

All  thy  smiles  and  all  thy  tears 
In  thy  voice  awaken, 
And  sweetness,  wove  of  joy  and  woe, 
From  their  teaching  it  hath  taken ; 
Feeling  and  music  move  together, 
Like  a  swan  and  shadow  ever 
Floating  on  a  sky-blue  river 
In  a  day  of  cloudless  weather." 

To  one  that  remembers  his  Wordsworth,  the 
picture  of  the  swan  is  not  happy,  but  the  inspi 
ration  of  this  piece,  too,  holds  to  the  end. 

On  page  32  comes  the  "Ode"  beginning 
with  the  familiar  line,  — 

"  In  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen-eyed  wonder." 

There  is  a  reason  for  our  remembering  this  line ; 
it  is  the  best  line  of  six  pages  of  blank  verse, 


James  Russell  Lowell.  73 

evenly  respectable,  and  ending  with  a  well-worn 
simile,  — 

"As  when  a  sudden  burst  of  rattling  thunder 
Shatters  the  blueness  of  a  sky  serene." 

The  first  promise  of  a  poet  appears,  perhaps, 
on  page  46,  in  "  The  Rose."  Besides  being  of 
interest,  this  piece  has  poetic  atmosphere,  an 
important  element  not  before  noticeable.  As 
for  the  twenty-seven  sonnets  soon  following, 
suffice  it  to  say  that  the  high-water  mark  is 
reached  in  the  one  addressed  to  Wendell  Phillips. 
"A  Legend  of  Brittany"  is  a  smooth- running 
story,  so  carefully  told  as  to  make  it  pleasant 
reading  throughout.  Among  many  pretty  lines 
are  two  not  easily  forgotten, — 

"  As  if  a  lark  should  suddenly  drop  dead 
While  the  blue  air  yet  trembled  with  its  song." 

"  Prometheus  "  is  hardly  beyond  the  reach  of  a 
cultured  young  man  of  poetic  tendencies. 

When  we  come  to  "  An  Incident  in  a  Railroad 
Car,"  toward  the  close  are  three  stanzas,  simple, 
wise,  and  sweet,  that  might  have  dropped  from 
the  pen  of  the  Scottish  ploughboy,  — 

"  It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century  ;  — 


74  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

"  To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  untutored  heart." 

The  next  and  last  stanza,  the  tag  of  the  teacher, 
shows  the  prevailing  influence  of  the  time,  and  is, 
like  all  its  kindred  in  Longfellow  and  the  rest,  a 
blemish. 

In  "  Rhoecus "  passages  of  classic  beauty 
streak  the  sea  of  modern  instruction  with  the 
pure  poetic  phosphor;  while  in  the  pieces  im 
mediately  following,  didacticism  holds  its  dull 
color  from  page  to  page  till  we  come  to  the  fire 
characterizing  the  "  Stanzas  on  Freedom."  If 
such  lines  as  the  last  two  of  this  poem  and  of 
"  Columbus  "  are  possible  to  other  than  a  poet, 
still  they  reveal  power  of  condensation ;  which 
is  not  one  of  the  merits  of  these  early  verses 
generally,  and  which  is  of  the  very  pith  of 
poetry,  - 

"  They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 
In  the  right  with  two  or  three." 


"  A  lavish  day  !     One  day,  with  life  and  heart, 
Is  more  than  time  enough  to  find  a  world." 


James  Russell  Lowell.  75 

Thus  far  we  find  the  poetic  temperament,  but, 
beyond  the  mere  mechanics,  little  of  the  poet's 
method  of  interpretation,  little  to  convince  us 
that  song  is  the  native  form  of  utterance.  The 
readiness  of  mind,  characteristic  of  the  prose 
essays,  is  evidently  native ;  so,  too,  is  the  haste, 
the  trust  reposed  in  the  moment.  Young  poets 
are  not  expected  to  master  blank  verse,  but  they 
are  supposed  to  know  that,  if  "  second  thoughts 
are  prose,"  first  thoughts  are  often  something  not 
so  good  as  prose, — 

"  Chances  have  laws  as  fixed  as  planets  have, 
And  disappointment's  dry  and  bitter  root, 
Envy's  harsh  berries,  and  the  choking  pool 
Of  the  world's  scorn,  are  the  right  mother-milk 
To  the  tough  hearts  that  pioneer  their  kind, 
And  break  a  pathway  to  those  unknown  realms 
That  in  the  earth's  broad  shadow  lie  enthralled." 

We  must  not  omit  one  quotation,  where  the 
didacticism  and  the  consonant  endings,  rimic  in 
effect,  are  offset  by  three  noble  lines,  — 

"  The  wicked  and  the  weak,  by  some  dark  law, 
Have  a  strange  power  to  shut  and  rivet  down 
Their  own  horizon  round  us,  to  unwing 
Our  heaven-aspiring  visions,  and  to  blur 
With  surly  clouds  the  Future's  gleaming  peaks, 
Far  seen  across  the  brine  of  thankless  years. 
If  the  chosen  soul  could  never  be  alone 
In  deep  mid-silence,  open-doored  to  God, 
No  greatness  ever  had  been  dreamed  or  done  ; 
Among  dull  hearts  a  prophet  never  grew; 
The  nurse  of  full-grown  souls  is  solitude." 


76  That  Dome  in  Air. 

The  last  stanza  of  "The  Present  Crisis,"  often 
quoted,  exhibits  representative  merits  and  de 
fects,  — 

"  New  occasions  teach  new  duties,  Time  makes  ancient 
good  uncouth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep 
abreast  of  Truth ; 

Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires  !  we  ourselves  must 
Pilgrims  be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the 
desperate  winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood- 
rusted  key." 

But  when  are  we  coming  to  the  poet?  On 
the  very  next  page.  After  turning  upward  of 
ninety  leaves,  we  open  upon  "  An  Indian-Sum 
mer  Reverie,"  and  —  a  disclosure  somewhat 
startling  —  upon  perhaps  the  nearest  perfect 
poem  of  the  length  that  Lowell  has  left  us. 
Elsewhere  are  higher  flights,  but  where  in  the 
four  volumes  is  there  another  poem  of  the  length 
so  thoroughly  poetic  ?  — 

"  The  birch,  most  shy  and  ladylike  of  trees, 
Her  poverty,  as  best  she  may,  retrieves, 
And  hints  at  her  foregone  gentilities 

With  some  saved  relics  of  her  wealth  of  leaves  ; 
The  swamp-oak,  with  his  royal  purple  on, 
Glares  red  as  blood  across  the  sinking  sun, 

As  one  who  proudlier  to  a  falling  fortune  cleaves." 

Finer   still  is  the  rollicking  bobolink,   captured 
at  a  single  stroke,  — 


James  Russell  Lowell.  77 

"  Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 

Remembering  duty,  in  mid-quaver  stops 
Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremulous  brink, 
And  'twixt  the  winrows  most  demurely  drops." 

Again  we  have  the  master  touch  in  the  lines, 

"  The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by  the  bleak  wind, 
As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day.1' 

We  need  not  dwell  on  "  The  Dandelion," 
"  She  Came  and  Went,"  "The  Changeling,"  and 
a  few  other  pieces,  all  of  them  poetry,  all  beauti 
ful  as  they  are  familiar.  We  pass  them,  bearing 
in  mind  the  small  quantity  and  the  excellent 
quality  of  the  poetry  discovered.  Lowell  says  in 
the  prefatory  note  to  this  volume,  penned  in  his 
old  age,  that  he  would  like  to  put  "a  great 
many  pieces  "  well  back,  if  not  out  of  sight.  It 
is  a  pity  that  the  white-haired  sires  of  song 
should  be  denied  so  proper  a  privilege. 

One  more  poem  in  the  volume  remains  to  be 
noticed,  the  next  to  the  last,  "  The  Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal."  From  the  first  eight  lines  of  this 
poem  is  felt  a  poetic  breath  not  breathed  again 
from  our  home  hills  and  fields,  and  rarely  wafted 
from  the  old  lands  beyond  the  sea ;  and,  passing 
on  to  the  twenty-four  lines  beginning, 

"  And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? " 

one  exclaims,  "The  purest,  the  sweetest,  and  at 
the    same    time    the    freshest,    strains    from   any 


78  That  Dome  in  Air. 

singer  of  our  soil !  "  It  is  a  dangerous  attempt, 
the  piping  of  new  variations  on  a  theme  of  Ten 
nyson's,  but  it  is  successful  in  the  present  in 
stance.  The  prelude  to  part  second  is  too 
fanciful,  perhaps,  too  pretty,  for  the  key  set  in 
the  masterly  beginning;  and  we  would  gladly 
spare  the  line, 

"  He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same," 
also  the  line, 

"  And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine." 

However,  these  are  faults  easily  overlooked  in  a 
poem  which  stands  next  below  the  "  Reverie  " 
in  point  of  perfection  of  composition,  and  above 
it  in  the  points  of  key  and  compass. 

Of  the  second  volume,  containing  the  incom 
parable  "  Biglow  Papers,"  one  need  not  say  that 
here  Lowell  stands  quite  alone. 

"  God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 
All  silence  an'  all  glisten." 

It  is  a  deep  disguise,  but  the  shining,  eternal 
angel  is  within.  The  first  series  of  the  "  Biglow 
Papers"  appeared  in  1848,  when  the  author  was 
twenty-nine,  while  the  other  poems  we  have 
glanced  at  were  published  when  he  was  twenty- 
five  or  twenty-six. 


James  Russell  Lowell.  79 

The  third  volume  of  this  definitive  series  in 
cludes,  with  earlier  work,  "  Under  the  Willows," 
which  we  first  saw  when  Lowell  was  in  the  prime 
of  manhood,  about  fifty.  The  tone  is  mellowed, 
the  gait  easier,  the  style  being  that  of  the  bright 
conversationalist  of  letters  and  song,  — 

"  I  love  to  enter  pleasure  by  a  postern, 
Not  the  broad  popular  gate  that  gulps  the  mob." 

"The  First  Snow- Fall,"  "The  Wind  Harp," 
"The  Foot-Path,"  show  no  progress  in  art  be 
yond  points  reached  in  the  short  poems  previ 
ously  mentioned ;  while  here  and  there,  as  in 
"  Al  Fresco,"  stand  passages  not  surpassed  for 
awkwardness  in  the  hasty  days  of  the  early 
twenties,  — 

"  O  unestranged  birds  and  bees  ! 
O  face  of  Nature  always  true  ! 
O  never-unsympathizing  trees  ! 
O  never-rejecting  roof  of  blue, 
Whose  rash  disherison  never  falls 
On  us  unthinking  prodigals, 
Yet  who  convictest  all  our  ill, 
So  grand  and  unappeasable  !  " 

Regarding  the  volume  "  Heartsease  and  Rue," 
the  last  bequest  to  us,  it  is  sufficient  to  speak  of 
the  poem  "  Agassiz."  As  one  reads  this  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  a  friend,  it  is  difficult  to  avoid 
a  comparison  with  "  Thyrsis."  Whether  or  not 
the  comparison  be  made,  one  feels  at  the  very 


8o  That  Dome  in  Air. 

start  that  the  things  said  so  excellently  are, 
after  all,  of  a  different  order  from  those  that 
"will  not  stay  unsaid."  The  impression  made 
is  that  of  an  attempt  as  deliberate  as  the  per 
formance  is  successful.  The  conversational  tone 
is  uppermost,  and  in  more  than  one  place  we 
have  hard  reading.  The  theme  is  thoroughly 
masculine,  and  such  lines  as  these  are  well  up 
to  it,  — 

"  Teach  me  those  words  that  strike  a  solid  root 

Within  the  ears  of  men  ; 
Ye  chiefly,  virile  both  to  think  and  feel, 
Deep-chested  Chapman  and  firm-footed  Ben,  — 
For  he  was  masculine  from  head  to  heel." 

But  further  on,  in  a  like  passage,  the  man  yields 
to  the  inventor,  — 

"  His  look,  wherever  its  good-fortune  fell, 
Doubled  the  feast  without  a  miracle." 

The  Miltonic  trilogy  of  virtues  is  not  exemplified 
in  this  ode ;  which  is  but  another  way  of  saying 
that  we  should  not  point  to  it  as  specifically  the 
work  of  a  poet.  The  intellectual  grasp  is  un 
questionable,  the  vigorous  English  as  well ;  but 
the  atmosphere,  the  flavor,  the  grace,  that  we 
must  insist  on  for  the  admission  of  song,  whether 
it  be  dirge  or  serenade,  —  whatever  else  is  here, 
these  are  wanting.  The  first  stanza  of  "  Thyrsis  " 
makes  this  only  too  plain,  — 


James  Russell  Lowell.  81 

How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  fills  ! 

In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothing  keeps  the  same  ; 

The  village  street  its  haunted  mansion  lacks, 

And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's  name, 

And  from  the  roofs  the  twisted  chimney-stalks  — 

Are  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills ! 

See,  't  is  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 

To-night  from  Oxford  up  your  pathway  strays  ! 

Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old  days, — 

Thyrsis  and  I ;  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then." 

Though  we  hear  much  more  of  the  odes  than  of 
"The  Cathedral,"  the  admirer  of  the  true  Lowell- 
ian  line  will  find  it  oftener  here  than  elsewhere  in 
volume  four  of  the  verse.  There  is  sense  enough 
in  it  to  stock  a  common  writer  for  a  lifetime,  and 
one  passage  that  not  Emerson  himself  could  bet 
ter  ;  which  is  to  say  that  it  has  peculiar  virtues 
not  excelled  by  any  poet  of  our  time,  — 

"  One  spring  I  knew  as  never  any  since  : 
All  night  the  surges  of  the  warm  southwest 
Boomed  intermittent  through  the  wallowing  elms, 
And  brought  a  morning  from  the  Gulf  adrift, 
Omnipotent  with  sunshine,  whose  quick  charm 
Startled  with  crocuses  the  sullen  turf 
And  wiled  the  bluebird  to  his  whiff  of  song  : 
One  summer  hour  abides,  what  time  I  perched, 
Dappled  with  noonday,  under  simmering  leaves, 
And  pulled  the  pulpy  oxhearts,  while  aloof 
An  oriole  clattered  and  the  robins  shrilled, 
Denouncing  me  an  alien  and  a  thief: 
One  morn  of  autumn  lords  it  o'er  the  rest, 
When  in  the  lane  I  watched  the  ash-leaves  fall, 
Balancing  softly  earthward  without  wind, 
6 


82  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Or  twirling  with  directer  impulse  down 
On  those  fallen  yesterday,  now  barbed  with  frost, 
While  I  grew  pensive  with  the  pensive  year : 
And  once  I  learned  how  marvellous  winter  was, 
When  past  the  fence-rails,  downy-gray  with  rime, 
I  creaked  adventurous  o'er  the  spangled  crust 
That  made  familiar  fields  seem  far  and  strange 
As  those  stark  wastes  that  whiten  endlessly 
In  ghastly  solitude  about  the  pole, 
And  gleam  relentless  to  the  unsetting  sun : 
Instant  the  candid  chambers  of  my  brain 
Were  painted  with  these  sovran  images ; 
And  later  visions  seem  but  copies  pale 
From  those  unfading  frescos  of  the  past, 
Which  I,  young  savage,  in  my  age  of  flint, 
Gazed  at,  and  dimly  felt  a  power  in  me 
Parted  from  Nature  by  the  joy  in  her 
That  doubtfully  revealed  me  to  myself. 
Thenceforward  I  must  stand  outside  the  gate  j 
And  paradise  was  paradise  the  more, 
Known  once  and  barred  against  satiety." 

Browning  is  never  more  spontaneous,  never 
fresher,  and  seldom,  if  ever,  so  continuously 
musical.  Indeed  few  have  addressed  Spring  at 
any  time  in  language  fitter  to  take  her  maiden 
heart.  And  why  is  not  Lowell  oftener  thus  de 
lightful?  Ah,  the  thousand  powers  that  must 
unite  for  the  birth  of  perfect  song  !  After  all, 
the  poet,  like  the  bluebird,  is  wiled  to  his  whiff 
of  melody ;  and  if  Nature  be  not  propitious,  let 
the  blame  be  upon  her.  Though  much  of  this 
poem  is  hardly  more  than  exalted  talk,  — 


James  Russell  Lowell.  83 

"  I  went,  and,  with  the  Saxon's  pious  care, 
First  ordered  dinner  at  the  pea-green  inn, 
The  flies  and  I  its  only  customers,"  — 

the  remainder  is  something  far  from  that,  — 
a  rich  deposit  of  wisdom  and  gladdening 
prophecy :  — 

"  Perhaps  the  deeper  faith  that  is  to  come 
Will  see  God  rather  in  the  strenuous  doubt, 
Than  in  the  creed  held  as  an  infant's  hand 
Holds  purposeless  whatso  is  placed  therein." 

Finally,  as  to  the  odes,  about  which  many  have 
had  much  to  say,  and  over  which  we  are  likely 
to  be  disturbed  by  the  patriotic  bias.  We  must 
beware  of  that,  otherwise  we  shall  not  see,  for 
instance,  that,  in  the  tribute  to  Washington,  the 
inspiration  that  has  made  famous  the  eighth  and 
last  division  of  "  Under  the  Old  Elm  "  flags  after 
the  eleventh  line.  Before  glancing  through  the 
"  Commemoration  Ode,"  let  us  remember  that, 
loose  a  term  as  the  word  "  ode  "  is,  and  has  ever 
been  in  our  language  and  practice,  we  have 
always  insisted  on  its  being  a  lyrical  and  spir 
ited  as  well  as  a  dignified,  composition  on  some 
worthy  theme.  There  must  be  high  thought,  and 
the  high  thought  must  find  expression  through 
the  poet's  method,  —  the  swift,  direct  method 
of  music  and  passion.  Lowell  being  compara 
tively  deficient  in  music  and  passion,  it  is  natural 
to  suspect  that,  however  complete  his  triumph  in 


84  That  Dome  in  Air. 

high  thought,  the  ode  will  not  be  the  species  of 
composition  to  reveal  him  at  his  best ;  and  so, 
in  the  writer's  judgment,  it  proves.  There  was 
everything  in  the  theme  of  the  "Commemoration 
Ode,"  in  the  occasion,  and  in  the  poet's  experi 
ence  and  sympathy,  to  rouse  him  to  the  utmost ; 
but  all  this  will  not  avail  when  nature  says,  "  Not 
quite  what  I  intended."  Proud  as  we  are  of  the 
odes,  especially  of  the  "Commemoration  Ode," 
it  is  a  question  how  much  they  advance  the 
claims  of  Lowell  purely  as  a  poet ;  like  Ten 
nyson's  dramas,  they  may  be  more  the  record 
of  a  last  ambition  than  of  a  push  of  nature. 
Indisputably  there  is  no  such  mastery  of  this 
form  as  there  is  in  the  case  of  the  dialect  pas 
torals,  of  the  idyllic  pieces  and  those  of  the 
order  of  "  Credidimus  Jovem  Regnare."  To  speak 
generally,  the  odes  are  wanting  in  emotion,  in 
music.  Whether  the  ode  be  Pindaric  or  Hora- 
tian,  regular  or  irregular,  whatever  be  the  style, 
high  thought  must  ride  on  fire  and  divine 
sound.  In  the  "  Commemoration  Ode  "  we 
have  the  high  thought,  but  have  not  continu 
ously  the  indefinable,  inevitable  quality  that, 
for  example,  makes  the  following  unpreten 
tious  lines  from  Hood's  "Ode  on  Autumn"  out 
weigh  in  poetic  value  Taylor's  "National  Ode" 
and  his  "  Gettysburg  Ode "  put  in  the  scales 
together :  — 


James  Russell  Lowell.  85 

"The  swallows  all  have  wing'd  across  the  main, 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 

Alone,  alone, 

Upon  a  mossy  stone, 

She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone, 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary; 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far-away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray." 

It  may  be  said  that  comparison  cannot  be 
made  between  poems  so  different  in  kind.  It 
can  be  made,  and  with  profit ;  for  poetry,  what 
ever  be  the  order,  is  always  poetry. 

The  theme  of  the  "  Commemoration  Ode  "  is 
noble,  but,  while  the  composition  moves  for  the 
most  of  the  way  with  dignity,  it  does  not  move  to 
smitings  of  the  lyre.  In  the  sixth  division  come 
twenty-two  great  lines  to  Lincoln.  Too  much 
cannot  be  said  in  praise  of  these  ;  but  after  them 
perhaps  only  two  will  be  remembered,  — 

"  And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face, 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American." 
The  splendid  line, 

"And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! " 


86  That  Dome  in  Air. 

is  followed  by  one  that  drops  to  the  prosaic  re 
gion  and  road  of  the  quadruped  and  the  pack- 
train,  — 

"  In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill." 

The  seventh  division  is  prosaic ;  wisdom  is  pres 
ent,  but  not  the  sort  that  is  bride  to  immortal 
verse.  The  fourth  line  of  division  eight, 

"  Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk," 

wretched  in  itself,  becomes  tenfold  more  vexing 
since  it  is  the  very  last  before  an  outburst  of  pro 
found  personal  sorrow.  At  the  twenty-eighth  line 
of  the  eighth  division  is  a  burst  of  fervor,  of  the 
success  of  which  the  reader  is  left  to  judge  on  re 
hearing  the  lines,  — 

"  Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow  ! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack ; 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show ; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track  ; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration  ; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays, 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation  1 " 

It  is  better  to  go  forward  to  the  twelfth  and  last  di 
vision,  where  we  may  hear  the  poet  at  his  best : 


James  Russell  Lowell.  87 

"  O  Beautiful !  my  Country  !  ours  once  more ! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 

And  letting  thy  set  lips, 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare  ? 

What  were  our  lives  without  thee  ? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee  ? 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee ; 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare  !  " 

At  first  thought  these  splendid  lines  shame  us  for 
the  restrictions  passed  upon  their  fellows;  on 
second  thought,  they  shame  their  fellows,  not  us. 
As  Coleridge  has  finely  said,  music  is  an  inte 
gral  part  of  the  imagination.  The  lyric  move 
ment  in  his  ode,  "  France,"  —let  us  have  a  strain 
of  it :  — 

"  Ye  Clouds !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 
Ye  Ocean- Waves !  that,  wheresoe'er  ye  roll, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws ! 
Ye  Woods  !  that  listen  to  the  night-birds  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging 
Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind  ! " 

Gray's  Ode,  the  "  Progress  of  Poesy,"  has  the 
integral  element,  music,  has  the  rapturous  move 
ment,  — 


88  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along, 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 
Through  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres'  golden  reign; 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain, 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour  : 
The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the  roar.'* 

In  Cowley's  ode,  "The  Praise  of  Pindar/'  —  if 
we  omit  the  seventh  and  eighth  lines,  —  the  "  rich 
stream  "  pours  on  :  — 

"  Whether  at  Pisa's  race  he  please 
To  carve  in  polished  verse  the  conqueror's  images ; 
Whether  the  swift,  the  skilful,  or  the  strong 
Be  crowned  in  his  nimble, artful, vigorous  song; 
Whether  some  brave  young  man's  untimely  fate 
In  words  worth  dying  for  he  celebrate  ; 

He  bids  him  live  and  grow  in  fame, 

Among  the  stars  he  sticks  his  name, 

The  grave  can  but  the  dross  of  him  devour, 

So  small  is  death's,  so  great  the  poet's  power." 

Even  in  the  strict  Horatian  ode  of  Marvell,  where 
the  close  words  and  lines  are  fairly  riveted  to 
gether,  there,  too,  is  the  rhythmic  pliancy,  the  rise 
and  fall  of  imperishable  melody,  of  august,  invul 
nerable  harmony, — 

"  The  forward  youth  that  would  appear, 
Must  now  forsake  his  muses  dear, 
Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 
His  numbers  languishing. 

"'T  is  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust 
And  oil  th'  unused  armor's  rust, 
Removing  from  the  wall 
The  corselet  of  the  hall. 


James  Russell  Lowell.  89 

"  So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 
Urged  his  active  star : 

"And  like  the  three-forked  lightning  first, 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst, 
Did  thorough  his  own  side 
His  fiery  way  divide." 

The  music  must  not  be  left  for  the  little  singers ; 
the  greater  the  poet,  the  greater  the  imagina 
tion,  and  the  voice  of  imagination  is  music.  The 
half-dozen  poets  whose  song  is  ever  on  the  breath 
of  the  world,  not  only  spoke  in  music,  but  thought 
in  it.  Browning  was  wont  to  leave  out  the  music, 
Lowell  was  wont  to  leave  it  out ;  but  Milton 
could  not  speak  without  its  going  in, — 

"  For  if  such  holy  song 

Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold  ; 
And  speckled  vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould ; 
And  hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day." 

Were  one  to  hazard  a  prophecy,  one  would  say 
that  our  splendid,  our  lamented  Lowell,  so  far  as 
concerns  his  verse,  will  be  remembered  for  two 
brief  but  noble  eulogies  of  two  of  the  noblest  of 
men,  but  more  particularly  as  the  author  of  "  An 


go  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Indian  Summer  Reverie  "  and  of  "  The  Vision  of 
Sir  Launfal "  ;  and  perhaps  before  these  for  that 
matchless  variation  of  the  voice  of  rustic  love 
wherein  the  wild  rose,  Hulda,  sits  blushing  to  the 
brook  forever. 


IV. 

JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

IN  coming  of  age,  Whittier,  a  shy,  self- 
taught  farmer  boy,  found  himself,  not, 
like  a  brother  singer  at  even  an  earlier 
age,  in  a  college  chair  of  modern  languages,  but 
most  prosaically  seated  in  the  editorial  chair  of 
the  "American  Manufacturer."  Unpromising  as 
was  the  outlook  for  poetry,  the  young  editor  was 
hardly  out  of  place  there  ;  for,  as  became  a  scion 
of  his  stock,  he  proved  himself  nimble -witted, 
many-handed.  Piper  or  politician,  as  the  mood 
took  him,  he  was  one  hour  the  gentlest  of 
Quakers,  the  next  the  stiffest  of  fellows  for  a 
fight.  The  contradictions  were  only  in  seeming, 
for  the  greatest  poets  have  put  country  and  duty 
before  song;  and  though  one  call  himself  a 
Quaker,  Nature  has  the  first  and  final  say  as  to 
what  he  is  and  shall  be. 

Whittier's  bent  toward  poetry  is  shown  in  the 
early  turning  to  it;  and  the  man,  the  citizen, 
the  patriot,  is  shown  in  the  turning  away  from 
it  the  moment  there  was  something  on  hand  of 


92  That  Dome  in  Air. 

greater  importance.  While  the  lad  was  a  cham 
pion  of  the  red  man  and  an  ardent  lover  of 
nature,  and  would  fain  sing  of  these,  the  impulse 
was  instantly  checked  for  the  stern  task  of  bat 
tle  against  wrong  and  oppression.  The  love  of 
right  and  freedom  —  this  was  to  be  the  govern 
ing  power.  If  it  pointed  to  sunshine  and  song, 
to  ease  and  homage,  be  it  so ;  if  it  pointed  to 
darkness  and  the  cry  of  pain,  to  ostracism  and 
mobbery,  it  was  well.  Either  way,  it  mattered 
not,  he  stood  ready,  assured  of  the  end,  — 

"  The  curse  of  earth's  gray  morning  is 
The  blessing  of  its  noon." 

When  one  thoroughly  honest  and  competent 
to  judge  himself,  offers  us  the  key  to  his  life,  we 
cannot  accept  it  too  readily.  Wrhittier's  words 
are,  "  I  have  never  staked  all  on  the  chances  of 
authorship."  He  goes  further  than  this :  the 
verses  up  to  the  age  of  almost  threescore  are 
styled  "  simply  episodical."  Whittier  knew  him 
self  from  the  beginning,  and  was  his  own  best 
critic  whether  as  a  man  or  a  poet.  When  he 
threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  antislavery 
struggle,  he  knew  that  he  was  setting  his  face 
away  from  art ;  a  thing  which  another  "  Ameri 
can  "  and  "  poet  of  democracy  "  did  not  dream 
he  was  doing  when  the  sound  of  his  every  step 
was  a  violent  reminder.  The  outcome  was  in  no 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  93 

wise  doubtful :  our  "  Kosmos,"  lounging  among 
the  flowers,  was  not  suffered  to  pluck  them,  while 
our  mailed  and  visored  Quaker  has,  in  the  pauses 
of  the  onset,  snatched  here  and  there  a  fadeless 
blossom.  Such  is  the  meed  of  the  hero-poet; 
and  hero  and  poet,  if  America  has  produced 
either,  was  this  very  man,  this  friend  of  freedom, 
this  foe  of  the  oppressor. 

We  all  know  so  well  what  business  it  was  that 
filled  the  strong,  active  days,  what  absorbed  the 
whole  man  until  the  time  of  gray  hairs,  that 
America  has  not  in  her  literature  lines  which 
touch  her  more  than  the  couplet,  written  in 
1856,— 

"Oh,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public  wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of  song." 

But  the  song  must  stand  or  fall  by  itself,  we 
must  not  confuse  the  minstrel  with  the  man. 
Flowers  we  shall  find  before  the  year  1865,  when 
poetry  became  the  vocation ;  such  flowers,  how 
ever,  as  grow  high  above  the  quiet  valley,  up 
among  the  rocks,  tossed  by  the  warring  winds. 

With  "Mogg  Megone"  and  the  other  early 
verses  relegated  to  the  appendix  of  the  seven- 
volume  edition  of  Whittier's  works,  we  will  stay 
but  for  brief  illustration  of  the  poetic  instinct. 
Among  the  echoes  of  Scott  and  Byron  comes, 
now  and  then,  an  accent  like  this,  — 


94  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  He  knew  the  rock  with  its  fingering  vine, 
And  its  gray  top  touch 'd  by  the  slant  sunshine." 

The  open-air  freedom  characteristic  of  the  later 
work  is  discoverable  in  the  prophecy  of  Mogg 
Megone,  that  he  will  possess  Ruth,  the  outlaw's 
daughter,  — 

"  But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep  on  my  breast, 
And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing  in  my  nest " ; 

while  in  "The  Sicilian  Vespers"  we  note  the 
vividness  and  swing  natural  to  the  balladist,  — 

"  The  startled  monks  thronged  up, 

In  the  torch-light  cold  and  dim; 

And  the  priest  let  fall  his  incense-cup, 

And  the  virgin  hushed  her  hymn." 

The  early  pieces  establish,  moreover,  an  in 
stinctive  preference  for  home  matter.  Whittier, 
ending  as  he  began,  began  as  a  singer  of  his 
native  New  England  sod.  The  traditions  of  the 
valley  of  the  Merrimac,  which  he  took  in  with 
the  mother-milk,  never  quite  go  out  of  mind; 
while  the  hills  and  rivers  of  Essex  vie  with  mo 
mentous  problems  of  reform  in  the  steady  press 
for  utterance.  The  man  with  a  mission  is,  of 
course,  omnipresent  from  the  start.  Four  lines 
of  the  second  poem  of  volume  four,  verses  to  a 
fellow-toiler  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  might  well 
have  been  addressed  to  the  author  himself,  — 


John  Greenleaf  Whit  tier.  95 

"  We  will  think  of  thee,  O  brother ! 
And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 
And  the  anthem  of  the  free." 

Poetry  is  the  episode ;  art  is  not  the  aim,  — 

"  Art  builds  on  sand ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 
But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  Him  surviveth  all." 

This  favorite  sentiment  is  repeated  in  the  lines 
written  for  Bryant's  birthday,  — 

"  Thank  God !  his  hand  on  Nature's  keys 
Its  cunning  keeps  at  life's  full  span ; 
But,  dimmed  and  dwarfed,  in  times  like  these, 
The  poet  seems  beside  the  man  !  " 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  scarcity  of  books 
in  the  little  Quaker  household;  but  Indian 
legends,  tales  of  Puritan  persecution,  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  and  Burns's  poems  were  not  all.  The 
Bible  was  there  ;  and  few  are  the  many  pages  of 
this  poet  where  is  not  made  good  the  saying  of 
Coleridge,  that  the  Bible  is  sufficient  for  the  ac 
quiring  of  style.  In  substance  and  in  setting, 
the  Bible  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Whittier's  art ; 
the  faith,  the  fervor,  the  simplicity  and  sensu- 
ousness  of  the  ancient  Hebrew  are  unremittingly 
his. 

In  passing,  busy  investigators,  of  the  blood  of 
them  that  tell  the  number  of  knots  in  Hercules's 


96  That  Dome  in  Air. 

club,  have  given  Whittier  a  period  of  "  storm 
and  stress."  It  remains  only  to  prove  "  Maud 
Muller,"  "The Tent  on  the  Beach,"  and  "Snow- 
Bound  "  a  trilogy  with  an  immense  undermean- 
ing,  and  Whittier,  too,  will  be  among  the  incom- 
prehensibles.  Such  questioning  of  his  soul  as 
he  makes,  results  in  no  utterance  darker  than 
this,  — 

"  O  friend  !  no  proof  beyond  this  yearning, 
This  outreach  of  our  hearts,  we  need ; 
God  will  not  mock  the  hope  He  giveth, 
No  love  He  prompts  shall  vainly  plead." 

A  distinguished  critic  laments  Whittier's  turn 
ing  from  the  quiet  scenes  of  the  hearthside  and 
of  the  home  fields, 

"  Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong." 

Few,  probably,  share  the  sentiment;  the  many 
feeling,  on  the  other  hand,  that,  excellent  as  the 
«•'  homely  idyls  "  and  "  summer  pastorals  "  of 
the  after  days  prove,  too  much  cannot  be  said 
in  praise  of  the  judgment  that  deferred  these  till 
the  fire  and  irony,  the  tenderness  and  invective, 
of  the  "  Voices  of  Freedom  "  should  have  helped 
to  work  out  their  great  purpose,  until  the  prayers 
of  the  patriot  should  have  been  answered,  and 
his  hope  satisfied.  The  country  has  certainly 
been  the  gainer,  and  one  questions  the  loss  to 
song.  Whittier's  range  is  not  wide  ;  he  has  gone 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  97 

the  ground  over,  and  perhaps  no  other  prepara 
tion  than  that  chosen  could  have  served  better 
as  a  prelude  to  the  last  happy  work,  — 

"[The]  free  and  pleasant  thoughts,  chance  sown, 
Like  feathers  on  the  wind." 

If  Whittier  was  by  nature  and  training  fitted  to 
sing  the  life  and  nature  of  New  England,  he  was 
equally  equipped  for  the  "  war  with  wrong  " ; 
and  in  this,  the  stormier  field,  there  was  none  to 
stand  beside  him,  his  voice  had  no  second  in 
those  dark  days. 

"  Leave  studied  wit  and  guarded  phrase 
For  those  who  think  but  do  not  feel ; 
Let  men  speak  out  in  words  which  raise, 
Where'er  they  fall,  an  answering  blaze, 

Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire  from  steel." 

Such  was  the  voice,  — the  only  voice  in  America 
that  could  blend  with  Garrison's  in  the  battle  for 
the  slave. 

"  Lift  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's  rusted 

shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine  Tree  on  our  banner's 

tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round 

the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  'Thus 

saith  the  Lord  ! ' 
Rise   again   for   home   and  freedom  !  set  the  battle  in 

array  ! 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do 

to-day." 


98  That  Dome  in  Air. 

The  effect  of  a  trumpet  blast  like  this  at  the 
momentous  time  when  it  was  sounded  is  sufficient 
justification  for  forgetting  all  the  rules  of  art  save 
those  that  go  to  the  sounding  of  it.  Whether  it 
be  the  torrent  of  scorn  poured  on  the  "  paid 
hypocrites"  in  their  "  tasselled  pulpits,"  or  the 
wail  of  the  broken-hearted  slave-mother  for  her 
daughters  sold  into  bondage,  —  whatever  haps 
to  the  fane  of  poesy,  the  temple  of  freedom  is 
ringed  to  the  spire-tip  with  fire  as  of  the  light 
ning.  Two  things  worked  greatly  to  Whittier's 
advantage  in  the  "  war  with  wrong,"  —  he  had  the 
prophet's  fire,  and  he  had  not  too  much  scholar 
ship.  Most  of  the  pieces  written,  not  for  the 
future  and  for  the  author,  but  for  the  hour  and 
for  the  cause,  have  little  attraction  now ;  still, 
while  there  are  few  notable  poems  among  them, 
there  are  many  choice  lines  and  not  a  few  fine 
stanzas.  The  "  Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert," 
with  a  new  metre,  for  Whittier,  and  a  haunting 
quality,  "  At  Port  Royal,"  and  "  The  Pine  Tree  " 
are  among  the  antislavery  pieces ;  there,  too,  are 
"  Randolph  of  Roanoke  "  and  "  Massachusetts 
to  Virginia,"  — 

"  Wild   are   the  waves  which   lash  the  reefs   along  St. 

George's  bank ; 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and 
dank; 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  99 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are 

the  hearts  which  man 
The    fishing-smacks   of    Marblehead,   the  sea-boats  of 

Cape  Ann." 

As  in  the  antislavery  poems,  so  in  the  hurried 
addresses  to  heroes  and  martyrs  which  make 
the  bulk  of  volume  four,  it  is  not  always  poetry, 
not  always 

"  The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind." 

There  is  no  question  about  the  upright  mind  ;  but 
the  "angel  utterance," — how  could  we  expect 
one  who  was  not  trying  for  it  to  hold  to  that 
when  all  on  the  long  list  of  song,  making  it  the 
constant  endeavor,  have  failed  so  often?  When 
it  comes  to  the  verses  which  serve  as  brief 
respites  from  the  effort  of  the  harsher  strains, 
the  charm  of  New  England  scenery  is  depicted 
in  the  manner  native  to  the  poet ;  while  occa 
sionally  is  to  be  met  a  touch  reminiscent  of 
Keats  or  of  Wordsworth. 

"Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 
And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy." 

That  is  Keats-like ;  and  the  Wordsworthian 
flavor  is  unmistakable  in  the  closing  lines  of 
"  Lucy  Hooper,"  — 


IOO  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Clouds,  crimson  sky,  and  trembling  leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods, 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake ; 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory." 

"The  Hill-Top,"  too,  though  wholly  Whittier's, 
recalls  the  bard  of  Rydal.  Here  and  there, 
coming  upon  choice  stanzas  like  the  one  in 
"  Burns,"  — 

"Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 

Eternal  echoes  render; 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme, 

And  Milton's  starry  splendor!  "  — 

one  regrets  that  there  are  not  more  such.  Ours 
is  all  the  regret ;  the  old  author  bethought  him 
of  other  laurels,  prouder  than  ever  poet  wore. 

In  the  last  half  of  volume  three  are  the 
"  Songs  of  Labor."  The  author,  writing  of 
things  of  which  he  is  a  part,  exhibits  quite 
another  sort  of  authorship  than  the  cataloguing 
of  the  various  kinds  of  labor  that  drift  into  the 
ken  of  the  professional  idler  while  observing  a 
spear  of  grass.  If  our  laboring  class  have  had 
anything  written  to  or  about  them  that  they  —  or 
their  employers,  for  that  matter  —  can  recognize 
as  approximating  representative  expression,  it  is 
to  be  found  in  such  lines  as  these  :  — 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  101 

"  From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky." 


"  Ho !  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  !  " 

To  such  verses  we  point  all  friends  across  the 
seas  that  wish  to  know  something  of  the  work  of 
our  soil.  Would  they  know  how  our  corn 
grows  ? 

"  All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June, 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair." 

Would  they  hear  a  voice  from  our  hills  ? 

"And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 
From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 
On  the  wind  of  night." 

New  England  is  not  America,  but  it  is  the 
corner  of  America  that  our  poets  have  favored ; 


IO2  That  Dome  in  Air. 

and  such  American  life  and  manners  and  land 
scape  as  the  muses  have  seen  fit  to  sanction  are 
to  be  found  mainly  in  the  work  of  Bryant,  Emer 
son,  Whittier,  Longfellow,  Holmes,  and  Lowell. 
It  is  said  that  Whittier  is  restricted  to  the  hills 
and  valleys  of  his  birth-spot;  and  it  is  said, 
again,  that  Whitman,  of  all  our  poets,  is  the  one 
to  voice  the  sea.  The  first  statement  needs  quali 
fication  ;  the  second,  something  more  thorough. 

"  Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 

With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with  cool  spray 
wet." 


" .     .     .    Just  then  the  ocean  seemed 
To  lift  a  half-faced  moon  in  sight ; 
And,  shoreward,  o'er  the  waters  gleamed, 

From  crest  to  crest,  a  line  of  light, 
Such  as  of  old,  with  solemn  awe, 
The  fishers  by  Gennesaret  saw, 
Where  dry-shod  o'er  it  walked  the  Son  of  God, 
Tracking  the  waves  with  light  where'er  his  sandals  trod." 

"  And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far  ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 
And  mirrors  every  star  ; 

"  Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 
The  priesthood  of  the  sea.'' 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  103 

"  I  draw  a  freer  breath,  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 

Waves  in  the  sun,  the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam, 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  south  wind  free. 

"  So  when  time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vastness  grow. 

"And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing ; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new  life  stealing." 

Seeking  "  the  breath  of  a  new  life,"  are  we  to 
pass  such  movements  for  the  flittings  of  the  he- 
bird  and  the  she-bird,  and  other  mystic  broken- 
wingedness  and  broken-mindedness  in  the  open 
ing  piece  of  the  "  Sea-Drift  "  division  of  "  Leaves 
of  Grass"? 

Again,  is  the  search  for  representative  Ameri 
can  poetry  to  end  in  this  ?  — 

"A   Yankee  bound  my  own  way  ready   for  trade,  my 
joints  the  limberest  joints  on  earth  and  the  stern 
est  joints  on  earth, 
A  Kentuckian  walking  the  vale  of  the  Elkhorn  in  my 

deer-skin  leggings,  a  Louisianian  or  Georgian, 
A  boatman  over  lakes  or  bays  or  along  coasts,  a  Hoosier, 
Badger,  Buckeye ; 


IO4  That  Dome  in  Air. 

At  home  on  Kanadian  snowshoes  or  up  in  the  bush, 

or  with  fishermen  off  Newfoundland, 
At  home  in  the  fleet  of  ice-boats,  sailing  with  the  rest 

and  tacking, 
At  home  on  the  hills  of  Vermont  or  in  the  woods  of 

Maine,  or  the  Texan  ranch, 
Comrade  of  Californians,  comrade  of  free  Northwest- 

erners  (loving  their  big  proportions)." 

The  muses  are  more  merciful :  — 

"  Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe, 

The  steamer  smokes  and  raves ; 
And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 

"  I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be  ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where  soon 
Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 

"  The  rudiments  of  empire  here 

Are  plastic  yet  and  warm  ; 
The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 
Is  rounding  into  form  ! 

"Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 

Its  fitting  place  shall  find, — 
The  raw  material  of  a  State, 
Its  muscle  and  its  mind  !  " 

For  the  "poet  of  democracy,"  the  muses  point 
still  to  our  soldier-poet,  singing  between  the  blasts 
of  the  trumpet,  — 

"  Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  Mount 
Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart, 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  105 

"In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 
Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high, 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

"That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 
From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 
It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

"  Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  party  worshippers." 

In  the  first  volume  of  his  collected  works  we 
find  Whittier  in  a  favorite  field.     Here,  among 
the  familiar  poems  first  published  under  the  title 
"Ballads   of  New   England/'   are   "Telling    the 
Bees,"  and  "My  Playmate,"   replete  with  pure 
pathos,  with  human  interest  the  most  close  and 
tender;    "The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth"  and  the 
other    direct,   spirited    narratives    leading  on  to 
the    brisk    bit    of    novelty,    "Skipper    Ireson's 
Ride."     The  simplest  measures,  adorned  chiefly 
by  the  beauty  of  thought,  spontaneous  as  bird- 
songs,  straight  from  the  heart  and   to  the  heart, 
—  such  are  these  poems,  the  fame  of  which  far 
enough  exceeds  the  ambition  of  the  author. 

Some  one  has  regretted  the  lack  of  display 
of  the  poet's  inner  life  :  but  could  there  be  a 
better  showing  of  this  than  the  steady  under- 


106  That  Dome  in  Air. 

current  of  high,  invincible  spirit  pervading,  ay. 
prompting  every  line?  There  is  no  need  of 
explicit  announcement  of  this  and  that ;  the  soul 
of  the  man  and  the  music  of  the  poet  flower 
together,  telling  their  story  plainly  and  sweetly 
as  do  the  blossoms  of  the  native  fields  and 
byways. 

Whittier  is  somewhat  inflexible,  stiff;  but  so 
was  Wordsworth.  While  with  both  it  is  a  stub 
born  defect,  it  yields  to  the  rich  inheritance  of 
spirit  that  refuses  to  be  held;  that,  despite  all 
bonds,  will  leap  in  the  freedom  of  the  mountain 
brook,  take  the  sunshine,  and  run  with  grace 
and  music  down  into  the  valley  where  wake 
and  sleep,  where  toil  and  rest,  the  multitude  of 
the  children  of  men.  Patient  endurance,  self- 
sacrifice,  all  the  mind  and  heart  devoted  to  a 
high  cause,  —  this  is  the  soil  from  which  the 
fadeless  flowers  of  song  have  always  blown,  and 
from  which  they  will  forever  blow.  In  the  guard 
kept  at  the  post  of  duty  for  a  term  of  years  that 
must  suffice  the  most  of  us  for  a  lifetime,  in  the 
long  solemn  watch  upon  the  jeopardy  of  a  mighty 
cause,  —  in  this  deep  past  of  the  patriot  lies 
the  secret  of  Whittier's  choicer  poems,  simple, 
heartfelt,  sweet  as  the  light  and  air. 

"  So  fall  the  weary  years  away ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day." 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  107 

The  simple  faith,  the  trust  and  repose  of  the 
child ;  this,  after  the  toil,  the  trial  as  by  fire,  of 
that  small  band  of  immortals  that  stood  for  the 
inalienable  birthright  of  man.  It  is,  indeed, 

"...  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
And  memory's  sunset  gold." 

As  has  been  said,  Whittier  is  somewhat  stiff. 
He  is  also  provincial;  but  he  has  his  lifts  into 
universality  as  surely  as  certain  things  in  the 
human  heart  hold,  world  over.  If  the  bleakness 
of  the  old  Haverhill  birth-spot  is  on  many  a  page, 
a  goodly  number  lie  in  the  warmer  light  every 
where  recognized  and  rejoiced  in.  The  simplest 
forms  of  verse  structure  are  the  rule ;  but  there 
is,  too,  freedom  of  melody  that  no  mere  master 
of  metres  can  hope  to  waken.  There  is,  more 
over,  originality  of  a  higher  order  than  that  of 
intricate  technics,  —  the  originality  of  simplicity. 
Simplest  words,  for  example,  catch  the  spirit 
of  the  cold  :  — 

"  He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !  on 

the  rushing  Northern  blast, 

And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fear 
ful  breath  went  past." 

If  the  imagination  be  more  intense,  still  the 
simplicity  is  preserved  :  — 

"  Fair  scenes  1  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 

Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 
What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 


io8  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 

And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 
His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  !  " 

Rare  in  our  poetry  are  four  choicer  lines  of 
description  than  the  stanza,  a  little  farther  on,  — 

"  How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 

On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay; 
Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 

And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day." 

Nor  is  it  Nature  alone  that  Whittier  can  por 
tray.  Which  of  our  artists  could  better  the 
miniature  of  Emerson?  — 

"  He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  Puritanic  face, 

With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom  lit  ? 
Shrewd  mystic  !  who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanac, 
Writing  the  Sum's  song,  the  Gentoo's  dream, 
Links  Manu's  age  of  thought  to  Fulton's  age  of  steam  !  " 

And  Longfellow  alone,  among  us,  has  matched 
the  grace  of  the  prelude  to  "  Miriam,"  — 

"  I,  called  from  dream  and  song, 
Thank  God  !  so  early  to  a  strife  so  long, 
That,  ere  it  closed,  the  black,  abundant  hair 
Of  boyhood  rested  silver-sown  and  spare 
On  manhood's  temples,  now  at  sunset-shine 
Tread  with  fond  feet  the  path  of  morning  time. 


John  Green  leaf  Whittier.          109 

And  if  perchance  too  late  I  linger  where 
The  flowers  have  ceased  to  blow,  and  trees  are  bare, 
Thou,  wiser  in  thy  choice,  wilt  scarcely  blame 
The  friend  who  shields  his  folly  with  thy  name." 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  dedication  of  the 
"Countess";  and  there  is  something  behind 
these  lines,  a  solid  support,  that  it  was  not  the 
privilege  of  the  more  favored  singer  to  lean 
against. 

Perhaps  we  do  not  see  Whittier  quite  as  he  is. 
Deficient  in  the  enchantment  possible  only  to  the 
highest  order  of  genius,  somewhat  bald,  somewhat 
crude  and  narrow,  impatient  of  revision,  so  care 
less  that  he  can  rhyme  "banner"  with  "Susque- 
hanna,"  and  "  cotton "  with  "'fortune,"  so  reck 
less,  indeed,  as  to  try  to  force  "  onward  "  and 
"looking"  into  a  union  of  sweet  sound, — this 
is  one  side  of  the  equation ;  but  what  is  the 
other?  If  he  leads  his  contemporaries  in  faults, 
he  leads  them  also  in  the  primal  virtues  of 
simplicity,  sinew,  enthusiasm,  and  spontaneity. 
With  less  imagination  and  with  but  a  fraction  of 
the  learning,  a  tithe  of  the  versatility,  of  Lowell, 
he  is  more  direct  and  telling.  The  Quaker  poet, 
far  more  than  Lowell,  was  the  poetic  power  of 
his  time.  With  as  much  imagination  as  Long 
fellow,  he  has  more  grip  and  fire ;  unequal  to 
him  as  an  artist,  he  has  qualities  even  rarer  than 
the  instinct  of  form,  —  enthusiasm  and  spon- 


i  io  That  Dome  in  Air. 

taneity.  Deficient  in  imagination,  again,  as 
compared  with  Bryant,  he  has  fervor  and  the 
lyric  gift.  While  Bryant  is  letting  his  imagina 
tion  wing  serenely  over  the  world  and  the  fate 
of  the  race,  Whittier  catches,  at  a  stroke,  some 
happy  expression  on  the  face  of  Nature,  sets  into 
instant  vibration  heart-strings  that  suffer  the 
breath  of  the  elder  bard  to  pass  over  them 
without  a  tremor.  While  Bryant  is  spreading 
his  energy,  thinning  it  on  the  long  stretch,  Whit- 
tier  is  husbanding  his  for  the  one  decisive  thrust 
to  the  quick.  In  short,  by  means  of  the  first 
poetic  virtues,  —  simplicity,  enthusiasm,  and  viri 
lity,  by  the  virtues  of  temperament  and  voice  that 
take  the  heart,  perhaps  Whittier  is  not  only  the 
representative  American  poet,  but  a  poet  as  sure 
as  any  among  us  to  endure.  When  the  gold  of 
his  work  has  been  cleared  of  the  dross  by  one  who 
shall  be  to  him  what  Arnold  was  to  Wordsworth, 
it  is  among  the  possibilities  that  the  result  will 
be  a  contribution  to  poetry  as  characteristic  and 
lasting  as  America  has  produced.  There  will  be 
neither  the  soaring  of  Bryant,  the  subtile  pene 
tration,  the  indescribable  flavor  of  Emerson,  the 
scholastic  finish,  the  literary  art  of  Longfellow, 
nor  the  reaches  that  in  a  few  instances  ally 
Lowell  with  the  immortals ;  but  there  may  be  a 
residuum  strong  against  the  assault  of  time. 
Of  the  two  poets  of  this  country  that  have 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  Hi 

been  read,  really  read,  it  is  Whittier,  not  Long 
fellow,  that  has  drawn  to  him  our  sturdy  class, 
our  "  hard-headed."  Whittier' s  strong  common- 
sense,  his  granitic  pith  and  aphoristic  snap,  com 
mend  him  to  such  minds  :  — 

"  We  sigh  above  our  crowded  nets 
For  fish  that  never  swam." 

It  is  not  the  wisdom  simply ;  the  idea  is  run  in 
the  mold  of  common  things,  it  is  part  and  parcel 
of  every-day  life.  The  author  worked  and  rested, 
thought  and  dreamed,  with  the  people,  —  his  own 
people,  whom  he  knew  from  the  quiet  of  the 
hearthside  through  all  moods  up  to  the  frenzy  of 
the  mob.  The  toil  and  amusements,  the  hopes 
and  fears,  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  common 
lot,  — these  and  the  natural  scenes,  familiar  as 
family  faces,  are  the  staple  of  his  song ;  while 
the  language  is  of  workaday  words,  moving  to 
the  music  of  the  lyre. 

As  for  quality  of  depiction,  poor  Bloomfield 
with  his  kodak,  Crabbe  with  his  dreary  realism, 
his  pest-house  fidelity,  and  Thomson  with  his 
awkward,  sprawling  honesty,  how  far-off  are  these 
in  method  from  this  new-world  bard  !  These  are 
outside  the  picture,  while  Whittier,  like  Cowper, 
is  in  the  picture,  only  much  deeper;  his  heart 
and  imagination  inform  the  shapes  and  colors,  he 
builds  and  glows  with  the  enthusiasm  and  affec- 


112  That  Dome  in  Air. 

tion  that  reached  full  development  in  Words 
worth.  While  Longfellow  is  a  surer  artist,  the 
best  verse  of  Whittier  has  a  certain  advantage 
over  the  smoother  work  of  Longfellow ;  this  for 
the  same  reason  that  the  best  verse  of  Cowper 
throws  the  odds  in  his  favor  when  we  turn  to  it 
from  the  glossy  levels  of  "  Goldy." 

"  She  came  and  stood  in  the  Old  South  Church, 

A  wonder  and  a  sign, 
With  a  look  the  old-time  sibyls  wore, 
Half-crazed  and  half-divine : 

"  '  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  with  equal  feet 

All  men  my  courts  shall  tread, 
And  priest  and  ruler  no  more  shall  eat 
My  people  up  like  bread  ! '  " 


"  No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 
Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

"  Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well ; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 
Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour." 

Such  stanzas,  and  such  descriptive  hits  as 

"  The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm," 

are  quite  common  with  Whittier ;  and  the  direct 
ness  and  strength  there,  the  yeoman's  nerve  and 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  113 

sinew,  we  never  think  of  looking  for  in   Long 
fellow. 

The  Nature  in  Whittier  is  the  Nature  that  shows 
to  the  eye  of  the  heart  as  well  as  to  the  eye  of  the 
mind ;  while  the  men  and  the  women  are  such 
beings  as  find  their  right  place  in  it,  —  never 
floating  in  mid-air,  never  any  nearer  heaven  than 
the  mother  ground  gets  to  fairydom  :  — 

"  Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 
Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race, 
Old  home-bred  virtues  hold  their  not  unhonored  place." 

It  may  be  objected  that  the  sturdy  class,  the 
"  hard-headed,"  — the  one  class  specified,  —  are 
not  the  tribunal  to  sit  in  the  case  of  poetry.  But 
it  is  auspicious  for  the  fame  of  a  poet  to  have  an 
admixture  of  these  with  the  softer  sort,  whose 
trend  is  toward  sentimentality.  However,  let  us 
not  lay  too  much  stress  on  the  "  practical,"  com 
mon-sense  element ;  for  while  it  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  Whittier's  work,  it  is  not  more  conspicuous 
than  the  emotion.  Indeed,  does  not  Whittier 
aim  first  at  the  heart? 

Lest  it  be  thought  that  the  patriot  is  put  in 
the  place  of  the  poet,  the  exceptional  man  and 
citizen  in  the  place  of  the  indifferent  minstrel; 
lest  it  be  thought  that  the  bonds  of  poesy  are 
being  drawn  to  fit  one  who,  though  he  may  be  the 
peer  of  a  poet,  is  not  pre-eminently  a  poet,  —  be 
8 


114  That  Dome  in  Air. 

it  said,  finally,  that  Whittier's  verse  fulfils  the  Mil- 
tonic  requirement :  it  is  simple,  sensuous,  and 
passionate.  Moreover,  no  man  has  it  faster  in 
mind  than  has  Whittier,  that  "the  office  of 
poetry  in  the  modern  world  is  still  its  ancient 
office  of  deliverance."  He  holds  to  the  old  no 
tion  of  poetry,  and  exemplifies  it  as  clearly 
as  any  singer  of  his  time.  He  is,  of  all  our 
poets,  the  born  lyrist,  the  master  of  pathos, 
of  rugged  strength  and  invective,  and  he  stands 
second  only  to  Longfellow  as  a  story-teller.  If 
"  Hiawatha "  comes  first  as  a  contribution  to 
general  literature,  "  Snow-Bound  "  shares  with  the 
"  Biglow  Papers  "  the  honor  of  the  first  place  in 
the  literature  of  the  white  man's  America. 

All  Whittier's  shortcomings  admitted,  he  is  a 
stanch  poet ;  despite  his  limitations  as  an  execu 
tant,  he  is  an  artist.  In  whatever  nook  of  his 
loved  New  England  the  muse  seeks  him  out, 

"  Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 
To  sing  in  door-yard  trees." 

From  none  of  our  poets  do  we  hear  oftener 
"  The  voice  of  God  in  leaf  and  breeze." 

Bryant  is  more  imaginative  and  stately,  Long 
fellow  superior  in  the  points  of  high  breeding 
and  finish,  Emerson  in  seminal  power,  in  the 


John   Greenleaf  Whittier.  I  r  5 

mystic  might  of  the  seer,  while  Lowell,  in  his 
rarer  passages,  all  but  catches  the  accent  of  the 
masters ;  but  it  would  be  rash  to  affirm  that 
the  costlier  fabric  of  any  of  these  will  outlive 
the  homespun  of  the  blessed  old  saint  militant  of 
Amesbury,  to  whom  right  and  his  country  were 
as  wife  and  child. 


V. 

HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

|N  birth,  in  prosperity,  in  health  and  hap 
piness,  in  length  of  years,  —  in  all 
these  was  Longfellow  blest.  Favored 
of  gods  and  men,  his  very  disposition  was  a  boon 
seldom  accorded  to  mortals ;  and  the  events  of 
his  life  seem  one  unfaltering  effort  to  continue 
the  first  benevolence.  All  that  one  could  ask 
at  the  hands  of  heaven  and  of  his  fellow-men 
this  gentle  poet  received.  His  native  powers 
were  fostered  by  every  attention  from  within 
and  from  without;  he  and  fortune  worked  to 
gether,  and  complete  development  was  assured. 
A  born  man  of  letters,  a  born  singer,  encour 
aged  in  every  way  to  guide  his  willing  instinct 
to  the  highest  reach  of  culture,  a  stranger  from 
birth  to  the  struggle  for  bread,  happy  in  his 
home  life,  called  to  just  the  positions  for  which 
he  was  fitted,  and  called  at  the  nick  of  time, 
advancing  by  swift  degrees  from  the  most  popular 
of  professors  to  the  most  popular  of  poets  ;  widely 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.       117 

known,  widely  loved,  —  surely  here  is  a  son  of 
man  to  be  envied. 

Thrice  happy  maker  and  vender  of  melodies  ! 
his  verse,  every  line  of  it,  accepted  while  the 
author  was  still  in  the  greenest  of  the  teens; 
never  an  objection  to  the  offerings  of  his  muse 
from  either  publisher  or  reader  until  so  late  that 
objection  was  futile,  productive  of  nothing  unless 
it  was  the  suggestion  of  impotent  grudging. 

So  complete  was  Longfellow's  success  that  one 
cannot  approach  him  in  a  critical  spirit  without 
fancying  a  kindly  shade  rising  before  him  with 
a  smile  rather  of  wonder  than  of  reproof,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Brother,  why  put  yourself  to  the 
trouble?  The  world  has  been  answering  you, 
point  by  point  and  year  by  year,  ever  since  the 
dawn  of  song  upon  the  workaday  dark  of  our 
wondrous  young  land."  Really,  it  would  seem 
that  the  critic  has  very  little  to  do  with  Long 
fellow.  To  separate  and  analyze  his  verses  is 
very  much  like  pulling  apart  the  summer,  hour 
by  hour,  or  flower  by  flower,  knowing  only  too 
well  the  while  that,  whatever  we  may  say  of  these 
things,  combined  as  they  were,  God  made  the 
summer,  the  glad  time  for  every  creature  with 
a  heart  to  beat  and  feel. 

Does  one  intrench  one's  self  behind  the  tech 
nics,  talk  learnedly  of  hexameters  and  trochaics, 
"But,"  comes  answer,  "  behold  ' Hiawatha'  and 


ii8  That  Dome  in  Air. 

'  Evangeline.'  "  Does  one  run  up  the  colors  of 
foreign  influence,  "  But,"  comes  answer,  "  '  Hy 
perion/  '  Kavanagh/  '  The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish,'  '  Hiawatha/  '  Evangeline/  —  both  the 
prose  and  the  poetry,  both  the  early  and  the 
mature  work,  were  written  by  one  of  the  soil  to 
be  read  and  re-read  by  the  thousands  of  the 
soil."  Does  one  bring  to  bear  the  guns  of  pas 
sivity,  lack  of  depth,  want  of  strength  and  verve, 
"  But,"  comes  answer,  "  what  is  wiser  than  sub 
mission,  what  profit  fret  and  rage  and  despair? 
Whether  for  the  living  or  for  the  singing  of  life, 
wherein  may  we  better  qualify  ourselves  than  by 
restraint,  by  hiding  the  discord  and  discontent, 
disclosing  only  the  harmony  and  peace?  Does 
it  not  show  depth  of  thought  and  feeling  when 
one  so  probes  into  life  as  to  find  it  vain  for  man 
to  struggle  with  the  eternal  mystery ;  to  find  that, 
whatever  appearances  may  be,  the  world  is  what 
the  old  prophets  found  it,  —  beautiful,  good? 
And  where  shall  strength,  ay,  strength  coupled 
with  skill,  be  found,  if  not  in  one  that,  in  order 
to  support  and  adorn  this  finding,  has  drawn  with 
exquisite  scholarship,  with  an  unfailing  instinct 
for  the  beautiful,  not  only  from  the  life  about  him, 
but  from  the  life  of  all  lands;  has  drawn  from 
all  sources,  —  from  the  savage  and  from  the  man 
of  fullest  culture,  from  the  old  time  and  from  the 
new,  —  and  has  so  delivered  the  message  that  it 


Henry   Wadsworth  Longfellow.       119 

has  sunk  into  the  souls  of  his  fellows  as  the  rain 
sinks  into  the  dry  ground  ?  And  verve  even,  is 
it  not  to  be  found  in  '  The  Skeleton  in  Armor,' 
in  'The  Leap  of  Roushan  Beg/  in  the  « Ballad  of 
the  French  Fleet/  and  in  'The  White  Czar'? 
Right-spirited,  too,  are  'The  Wraith  of  Odin' 
and  '  King  Olaf  s  Christmas.'  "  Make  one  more 
rally,  raise  the  old  battle-cry  of  commonplace, 
"But,"  comes  answer,  "by  commonplace  you 
evidently  mean  what  the  world  can  understand 
and  love,  can  be  interested  in,  can  profit  by, 
can  live  by.  Commonplace  is  your  label  for 
the  work  universally  found  interesting,  helpful, 
beautiful,  and  abiding." 

And  so  we  might  go  on  indefinitely.  Never 
theless,  it  is  our  duty  now  and  then  to  approach 
Longfellow  in  the  critical  spirit ;  for  he,  like  every 
other  poet,  is  at  last  but  a  special  phase,  an 
impersonal  phenomenon,  of  the  art  of  song.  If 
art  is,  as  we  have  found  it,  an  inheritance,  and  the 
great  artists  of  all  times  and  lands  are  governed  by 
the  same  elementary  rules,  however  they  may  vary 
in  the  individual  exercise  of  them,  —  we  should 
occasionally  recall  the  elementary  rules,  and  see 
wherein  Longfellow  has  obeyed  or  disobeyed 
them ;  we  should  inquire  if  he  really  is  one  of  the 
anointed. 

The  elementary  demands  of  poetry  set  us  to 
recalling,  first,  fit  matter ;  second,  clearness,  sim- 


I2O  That  Dome  in  Air. 

plicity,  imagination,  passion,  music,  as  essentials 
of  expression.  Longfellow's  instinct  for  poetic 
matter  is  overwhelmingly  evident ;  his  hand  fell 
on  it  as  by  sheer  gravitation.  Good  hunter  that 
he  was,  he  had  but  to  take  his  station,  and  the 
game  came  to  him  from  the  four  corners  of  the 
world.  The  matter  captured,  compassionate 
expression  would  not  be  left  behind.  This  is  as 
it  must  be  with  the  whole  poet ;  so  it  was  with 
Longfellow. 

Among  the  essentials  of  poetic  expression,  we 
cannot  go  amiss  in  naming,  first,  clearness.  What 
ever  Longfellow  tried  to  say,  he  said.  At  first 
blush,  this  may  not  seem  a  remarkable  victory ; 
but  giants  have  striven  to  win  it,  and  gone  down, 
miserably  overthrown.  With  clearness  Longfel 
low  united  simplicity ;  indisputably,  too,  he  was 
gifted  with  the  magic  accent,  the  witching  ca 
dence,  with  music. 

Coming,  now,  to  the  grand  features  of  imagi 
nation  and  passion,  our  commendation  must  be 
qualified.  Imagination  Longfellow  certainly  had, 
but  the  prose  of  his  life-long  friend,  Hawthorne, 
shows  that  its  place  among  his  many  gifts  is  not 
first.  The  sweep  of  Longfellow's  imagination  is 
restricted,  so  to  speak,  in  the  movement  up  and 
down.  Sublimity,  profundity  —  these  are  out  of 
its  way ;  but  on  the  long  level  sweep,  there  it  is 
unflagging ;  and  the  sureness  and  endurance  go 


Henry   Wadsworth  Longfellow.       121 

not  a  little  way  toward  offsetting  the  daring  vaults 
and  plunges  of  the  few  whose  might  we  style 
"  divine."  Longfellow  cannot  awe  and  amaze  us, 
cannot  snatch  us  up  to  heights  undreamed ;  but 
he  can  lift  us  well  above  the  ground,  for  tranquil 
travel  through  regions  of  unbroken  charm. 

We  must  speak  guardedly  on  the  point  of  pas 
sion  also.  While  the  passion  of  Longfellow  is 
not  intense,  it  is  always  at  command  ;  we  journey 
in  a  summer  glow,  in  grateful,  ripening  warmth. 
Longfellow's  heart,  if  not  leaping,  is  large  ;  the 
life  current,  though  slow,  is  full.  If  we  find 
Whittier  freer  of  the  books,  closer  to  the  heart 
of  Nature,  more  penetratingly  tender  at  times,  as 
in  "  In  School  Days,"  more  terrible,  as  in  "  Ich- 
abod";  if  Longfellow  is  unequal  to  such  a  tour 
de  force  of  manhood  as  "  My  Triumph,"  —  we 
remember  that  the  inspiration  of  the  dear  old 
Quaker-warrior  is  more  fitful,  that  the  bleak 
tracts  are  more  frequent. 

The  deficiency  in  quality  of  imagination  and 
in  quantity  of  passion  admitted,  the  censors  may 
be  right,  too,  in  finding  Longfellow  somewhat  too 
bookish,  too  ready  to  take  things  second-hand, 
and  unduly  inclined  toward  didacticism.  But 
let  us  look  a  little  closer  into  these  charges.  It 
is  possible  to  be  a  poet,  yes,  a  great  poet,  and 
at  the  same  time  be  bookish ;  there  is  no  doing 
away  with  Milton.  So  wide  was  Longfellow's 


122  That  Dome  in  Air. 

range  of  scholarship,  and  so  sure  was  his  instinct 
for  selection,  that  we  may  well  pardon  any  lack 
of  originality  that  he  may  exhibit.  There  is  bor 
rowing  and  borrowing.  Longfellow  did  not  bor 
row  his  individuality  of  presentation ;  he  did  not 
borrow  the  secret  that  enabled  him  to  speak  to 
the  heart  and  mind  of  his  people  and  of  the  civ 
ilized  world.  In  the  mastery  of  this  secret  he 
stands  with  a  very  small  company  about  him ;  a 
position  indicating  true  originality,  and  enough 
of  it  to  set  against  a  long  list  of  deficiencies. 

Again,  there  is  a  chance  for  a  detracting  stroke 
on  the  point  of  didacticism.  Overbearing  di 
dacticism  is  perhaps  the  one  misfortune  of  Long 
fellow's  inheritance.  The  old  Puritan  blood, 
elsewhere  beneficent  in  its  action,  here  works 
against  him  as  an  artist.  Clear  as  his  sight  was 
for  every  shape  and  hue  of  loveliness,  the  Puri 
tan  film  would  gather,  when  on  must  go  the  ugly 
tag.  Still,  there  is  this  to  be  said :  if  we  are 
to  be  put  to  school  before  the  poet  has  done 
with  us,  no  master  may  be  more  easily  for 
given  this  particular  infirmity  than  the  gentle 
singer  in  whose  class  we  find  ourselves  at  this 
hour. 

Reference  has  been  made  to  the  sureness  of 
Longfellow's  instinct  in  tracing  right  matter,  and 
of  his  ability  to  treat  it  when  found.  It  must  be 
said,  however,  that  to  find  the  expression  worthy  of 


Henry   Wadsworth  Longfellow.       123 

the  matter  we  must  take  it  as  a  whole.  Off-hand 
work,  easy,  breezy  though  it  be,  is  sure,  when  it 
comes  to  detail,  to  prove  defective.  Longfel 
low's  artistic  sense  saves  him  in  the  wholeness  of 
impression,  which  is  the  main  thing ;  but  more 
than  this  must  go  to  the  making  of  the  consum 
mate  workman,  of  the  master  artist.  Examined 
in  detail,  the  work  of  Longfellow  is  so  uneven  as 
to  surprise  one  who  has  simply  met  the  romancer 
on  his  own  generous  terms,  hearing  rather  with 
heart  than  head.  Beautiful,  for  instance,  as 
"  Evangeline  "  is  in  spirit  and  in  general  inspira 
tion,  one  has  but  to  catch  the  opening  accents  of 
that  poem  wafted  from  across  the  sea, 

"Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a  chasm, 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow  sands," 

to  learn  that  the  tender,  captivating  tale  of 
Acadie  is  not,  first  and  last,  a  work  of  art. 

We  have  found,  too,  that  Longfellow  has  the 
gift  of  music.  True,  but  here  again  we  must 
speak  of  the  general  impression,  we  must  not 
listen  measure  by  measure  ;  nor  may  we  hope  to 
hear  the  poet's  most  exquisite  melodies,  the  rav 
ishing  harmonies.  Longfellow,  gentle,  refined, 
as  he  was,  could  not  overcome  a  certain  crudity, 
a  looseness,  not  hard  for  the  lover  of  perfect  art 
to  forgive,  but  hard  to  overlook.  Yes,  while  the 
critic  finds  Longfellow  a  whole  poet,  with  right 


124  That  Dome  in  Air. 

matter  and  becoming  expression,  while  he  finds 
him  thoroughly  readable,  he  finds,  too,  that  he 
falls  short  of  the  high  ideal  of  the  poet.  And 
could  this  be  otherwise  with  one  whose  heart 
always  leaned  against  the  heart  of  the  masses, 
with  one  through  and  through  of  the  people? 
Indeed,  could  one  who  was  so  warm  a  lover  of 
his  kind  wish  to  have  it  otherwise  ? 

There  are  those  that  think  that  the  people 
read,  that  they  know  and  love,  pure  poetry ;  it 
is  a  beautiful  delusion.  The  comprehension  of 
high  art,  and  the  affection  for  it,  are  restricted 
to  a  very  few.  So  true  is  this,  and  so  great  is  the 
importance  of  poetry  in  the  common  walks  of 
life,  that  one  feels  like  flinging  away  the  critic's 
robe,  accounting  it  as  rags,  in  the  presence  of  a 
poet  with  the  master  secret  of  getting  himself 
read.  Here  is  Longfellow's  power,  here  is  his 
genius;  here  may  he  divide  honors  with  the 
greatest  in  the  commanding  line  of  song. 

But,  all  the  adverse  counts  in,  Longfellow  is  an 
artist ;  in  a  way  he  is  our  best  story-teller  since 
Chaucer.  Never  so  slipshod  as  Byron,  he  exhib 
its  more  taste  than  Byron  in  his  choice  of  themes. 
He  has  points  of  superiority,  too,  over  Tennyson 
and  Morris,  —  over  Tennyson,  singe  he  never  for 
gets  the  inactivity,  the  heaviness,  of  the  common 
mind,  the  mind  most  in  need  of  the  ministry  of 
song ;  over  Morris,  since  he  recognizes  the  limits 


Henry   Wadsworth  Longfellow.       125 

of  endurance  of  his  vast  clientage,  so  difficult  to 
serve  and  at  the  same  time  maintain  allegiance  to 
austere,  jealous  art. 

Nor  does  the  critic's  concession  to  Longfellow, 
as  an  artist,  stop  here.  Exception  may  be  taken 
to  details  of  the  mass  of  his  work,  but  this  does 
not  prove  incapacity  for  an  occasional  perform 
ance  well-nigh  perfect.  The  two  sonnets  intro 
ducing  "  Inferno," 

"  Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door," 
and 

"  How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these  towers  !  " 
and  the  second  sonnet  introducing  "  Purgatorio," 
"  With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of  flame,"  — 

if  any  perfect  poems  have  been  written  in  Amer 
ica,  these  are  among  them.  And  where  else  shall 
we  place  "Curfew,"  "The  Arrow  and  the  Song," 
"  Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,"  and  a 
few  others?  The  "  Skeleton  in  Armor,"  "King 
Witlafs  Drinking- Horn,"  the  "  Wreck  of  the  Hes 
perus,"  —  these  are  models  of  spirited  workman 
ship.  It  is  a  deft  hand,  too,  that  can  pen  verse 
light  and  charming  as  the  piece  "  To  the  River 
Yvette,"  and  the  airy  translation,  familiar  as  our 
own  names,  "Beware."  And  few  are  the  poets 
able  to  hold  the  even  excellence  of  the  vol 
umes,  "  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  "  Evangeline," 


126  That  Dome  in  Air. 

and  "  Hiawatha  "  ;  not  to  reckon  in  the  prelude 
to  "  The  Tales,"  perhaps  the  most  finished  com 
position  of  the  length  to  be  found  on  the  pages 
of  our  home  writers. 

While  "  Hiawatha  "  —  first  among  American 
additions  to  literature  —  and  the  admirable 
translation  of  Dante,  would,  of  themselves,  give 
the  author  an  enviable  place,  Longfellow's  is  a 
much  richer  meed.  A  born  benefactor  of  his 
kind,  Longfellow  was  the  first  to  bring  us,  as 
a  people,  under  the  spell  of  beauty,  to  lift  us  into 
the  sweet  serene  air  of  the  higher  life ;  and  still 
must  we  look  mainly  to  him  to  hold  us  where  he 
alone  could  place  us.  The  master  poets  sound 
down  through  other  mouths,  which  tone  their 
high  accents  to  the  acceptance  of  the  common 
ear ;  but  this  poet  speaks  directly,  infuses  his  soul 
without  help  or  hindrance  directly  into  the  great 
soul  of  the  world;  and  because  of  this,  assuredly 
one  does  not  err  in  claiming  for  him  greatness,  — 
greatness  of  an  order  by  itself,  an  order  all  but 
his  own. 


VI. 

WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 

|ERHAPS  we  have  poets  enough  now, 
but  how  close  the  escape  from  more 
of  them  !  A  few  additional  points  of 
time  and  circumstance  in  his  favor,  and  the  far 
away  fighter  Freneau  would  to-day  be  a  familiar 
voice.  The  hand  that  penned  "The  Indian 
Burying-Ground  "  and  "  The  Heroes  of  Eutaw," 
like  that  of  Idris,  had  higher  cunning  than  the 
holding  of  the  sword.  Side  by  side  with  that  of 
the  soldier,  the  ghost  of  the  bard  glides  toward 
us,  in  his  shadowy  hand  a  blossom  of  wild  honey 
suckle,  — 

"  From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came  ; 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same : 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower." 

Again,  a  few  friendly  lifts,   and   scholarly  Sands 
would   be    abreast   with    Whittier   in    his    early 


128  That  Dome  in  Air. 

work;  "  Mogg  Megone  "  would  have  a  rival  in 
"  Yamoyden,"  — 

"Beyond  the  hill  the  spirit  sleeps, 
His  watch  the  power  of  evil  keeps  ; 
The  Spirit  of  fire  has  sought  his  bed, 
The  sun,  the  hateful  sun,  is  dead. 
Profound  and  clear  is  the  sounding  wave, 
In  the  chambers  of  the  Wakon-cave ; 
Darkness  its  ancient  portals  keeps, 
And  there  the  spirit  sleeps,  —  he  sleeps/' 

And  the  young  author  of  "A  Health,"  had  not 
he,  too,  germs  of  poesy  that  in  a  kinder  season 
would  have  come  to  substantial  blossoming?  He 
also  saw  the  poetic  potency  of  the  soil,  or  he  had 
never  chanced  on  that  dusk  beauty  of  the  wild,  — 

"  But  not  a  flower  lies  breathing  there 
Sweet  as  herself,  or  half  as  fair  — 
Exchanging  lustre  with  the  sun, 
A  part  of  day  she  strays  — 
A  glancing,  living,  human  smile, 
On  Nature's  face  she  plays." 

Another  early  piper  of  the  new  world,  Brainard, 
born  to  the  realm  of  dreams  yet  never  to  enjoy 
the  promised  inheritance,  sends  his  gentle  spirit 
down  to  us  in  the  Nature-song  beginning,  — 

"  I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning 
Tinged  with  the  rising  sun  ; 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 
And  mingled  into  one  : 
I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blest, 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west." 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  129 

Lines  of  so  simple  and  subtile  beauty  as  those  of 
his  "  Revery  "  are  not  any  too  common  among 
artists  that,  by  reason  of  a  more  propitious  hour, 
make  their  fair  colors  fast :  — 

"  Yes,   there  are   thoughts  that  have  no  sound  —  such 

thoughts 

That  no  coined  phrase  of  words  can  utter  them  — 
The  tongue  would  syllable  their  shapes  in  vain  — 
The  cautious  pen,  even  in  a  master's  hand, 
Finds  nothing  at  its  point  to  mark  them  with. 
No  earthly  note  can  touch  these  airy  chords; 
'Tis  silent  music  —  indescribable. 
We  hear  it  when  the  ear  is  shut,  and  see 
Its  beauties  when  the  eye  is  closed  in  sleep ; 
We  feel  it  when  the  nerves  are  all  at  rest  — 
When  the  heart  stops,  and  the  charmed  soul  throbs 
on." 

Stormy  old  John  Neal,  master  of  all  profes 
sions  and  businesses,  everything  from  boxing- 
master  to  novelist,  -^-  he,  too,  must  fail  to  take 
the  heights  of  song.  Well,  he  gave  success  and 
defeat  a  sharp  tug  over  him.  His  "  Birth  of  a 
Poet  "  reads  very  like  a  family  record  :  — 

"  On  a  blue  summer  night, 

While  the  stars  were  asleep, 
Like  gems  of  the  deep, 
In  their  own  drowsy  light ; 
While  the  newly  mown  hay 
On  the  green  earth  lay, 

And  all  that  came  near  it  went  scented  away ; 
From  a  lone  woody  place 
There  looked  out  a  face 
9 


130  That  Dome  in  Air. 

With  large  blue  eyes 
Like  the  wet,  warm  skies, 
Brimful  of  water  and  light ; 
A  profusion  of  hair 
Flashing  out  on  the  air, 
And  a  forehead  alarmingly  bright. 

'Twas  the  head  of  a  poet !     He  grew 
As  the  sweet  strange  flowers  of  the  wilderness  grow, 

In  the  dropping  of  natural  dew, 
Unheeded,  alone, 
Till  his  heart  had  blown 

As  the  sweet,  strange  flowers  of  the  wilderness  blow  ; 
Till  every  thought  wore  a  changeable  stain 
Like  flower-leaves  wet  with  the  sunset  rain. 
A  proud  and  passionate  boy  was  he, 
Like  all  the  children  of  Poesy  ; 
With  a  haughty  look  and  a  haughty  tread, 
And  something  awful  about  his  head ; 
With  wonderful  eyes 
Full  of  woe  and  surprise, 
Like  eyes  of  them  that  see  the  dead. 

Looking  about, 

For  a  moment  or  two,  he  stood 
On  the  shore  of  the  mighty  wood ; 

Then  ventured  out 

With  a  bounding  step  and  a  joyful  shout, 
The  brave  sky  bending  o'er  him, 
The  broad  sea  all  before  him  ! " 

A  score  of  names,  now  hardly  known,  bear 
witness  to  hurried  visitations  of  the  muse  deserv 
ing  of  something  better  than  forge tfulness ;  but 
the  case  of  poor  Percival  seems  most  pitiful  of 
all.  Blake  himself  does  not  better  illustrate  the 
poetic  temperament :  — 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  131 

"  I  have  of  late  fallen  into  an  unconquerable  habit 
of  dreaming  with  my  eyes  wide  open.  My  whole 
life  has  been  a  round  of  reveries.  I  have  lived  in  a 
world  of  my  own  imagining ;  and  such  has  been  the 
vividness  of  my  conceptions,  that  I  can,  at  any 
moment  when  I  have  an  inclination,  summon  them 
to  my  mental  presence  with  the  ease  of  a  magician 
of  old,  when  he  evoked  with  his  charmed  rod  the 
shades  of  the  departed." 

With  the  poetic  temperament,  and  with  learn 
ing  and  spontaneity  rarely  equalled  by  successful 
adventurers  up  treacherous  Helicon,  he,  with 
the  rest,  must  be  enrolled  among  the  almosts. 

"  The  world  is  full  of  poetry  —  the  air 
Is  living  with  its  spirit ;  and  the  waves 
Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 
And  sparkle  in  its  brightness. 

Earth  is  veiled, 

And  mantled  with  its  beauty  ;  and  the  walls 
That  close  the  universe  with  crystal  in 
Are  eloquent  with  voices  that  proclaim 
The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 
In  harmonies  too  perfect  and  too  high 
For  aught  but  beings  of  celestial  mould, 
And  speak  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn, 
Unfading  beauty  and  unyielding  power." 

The  world  of  poetry  is  peculiarly  Percival's  own ; 
but  there,  too,  a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile,  and 
his  name  is  now  rarely  heard. 

Perhaps  a  dozen  of  our  early  lovers  and  prac- 
tisers  of  verse  were  more  than  Bloomfields  and 


132  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Clares ;  yet,  as  these  fell  away  at  the  approach 
of  robust  Thomson,  so  our  home  songsters 
dropped  back  into  the  shadow  in  the  presence 
of  the  lad  that  began  at  once  his  own  and  his 
country's  poetic  career  with  "  Thanatopsis." 

With  Bryant,  as  with  Whittier,  poetry  is  not 
the  vocation ;  if  Whittier  gave  his  best  years  to 
the  liberation  of  the  slave,  Bryant  gave  his  —  a 
half- hundred  of  them  —  to  the  general  guidance 
and  advancement  of  his  countrymen.  Always  a 
moralist,  he  is  at  times  a  poet.  Meditation  on 
the  great  theme  of  life  and  death  in  the  calm 
presence  of  Nature, — this  was  Bryant's  rest  from 
the  toil  of  a  long  and  busy  life. 

"  Thanatopsis  "  —  though  the  "  Thanatopsis  " 
of  1 8 1 1  was  not  the  "Thanatopsis"  of  to-day  — 
announced  a  new  poet,  a  new  poet  with  the 
nice  balance  of  brain  that  insures  certainty. 
Bryant  struck  surely  when  midway  in  the  teens. 
So  nicely  balanced  were  his  faculties  that  he  had 
simply  to  hold  the  course  in  which  he  placed 
himself  at  the  first  step.  One  characteristic, 
steadiness  of  merit,  was  thus  early  evidenced,  — 
a  characteristic  at  once  strong  and  weak.  For, 
while  with  unerring  judgment  —  another  word 
for  taste  —  we  are  certain  of  the  recognition  and 
constant  maintenance  of  fitness,  are  certain  of 
the  artist,  on  the  other  hand,  the  judgment  so 
austere  and  inflexible  that  it  will  turn  neither  to 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  133 

right  nor  left  points  to  self-containment  border 
ing  on  the  dangerous.  Only  when  the  mind, 
yielding  the  control,  is  now  and  then  carried  out 
of  itself,  are  we  sure  of  something  better  than 
has  been ;  only  then  may  we  predict  great  prog 
ress,  and  look  for  the  occasional  surprises  of 
perfection  that  astonish,  most  of  all,  the  unwit 
ting  instrument  of  their  production.  There  is 
danger  in  faultlessness.  Virtue  herself  is  wont 
to  announce  her  regal  coming  by  a  tattered  and 
shambling  herald.  It  is  a  happy  augury  when 
one  in  the  direct  line  of  the  blood  of  song  is 
caught  paying  court  to  the  dull  or  the  trivial ; 
erelong  he  will  prove  as  pliant  in  the  grasp  of 
beauty  and  power.  By  the  backward  swing  to 
the  farthest  point  from  inspiration,  impetus  is 
gained  that,  on  the  return  sweep,  carries  to  the 
peak  of  achievement.  While,  then,  we  have  in 
Bryant  a  sure  artist,  we  never  get  from  him  the 
unexpected. 

It  is  a  current  notion  that  Bryant,  rearing  his 
altar  in  the  woods  and  fields,  is  the  high  priest  of 
Nature.  Nature  is  the  altar ;  but  the  goddess  is 
morals.  Bryant  is  skilful  in  depicting  the  place 
of  his  solemn  ceremony,  he  is  second  to  none  of 
our  poets  as  a  "Nature  painter."  A  painter, 
however,  is  not  a  priest.  Painter  of  Nature, 
priest  of  morals,  Bryant  uses  his  skill  as  an  artist 
to  frame  the  features,  to  enforce  the  message,  of 


134  That  Dome  in  Air. 

the  lofty  goddess,  —  Duty.  Wordsworth,  too, 
was  high  priest  to  the 

"  Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  "  ; 

but,  devoted  as  he  was,  he  could  divide  the  ser 
vice  between  her  and  Nature.  With  the  rigid 
cast  of  Bryant  division  is  impossible.  Words 
worth,  domineering  when  with  his  fellow-men, 
could  surrender  himself  to  Nature,  content  to  be 
her  mouthpiece;  hence  the  unevenness,  the 
variety,  and  the  occasional  ecstasy,  —  the  incar 
nation  of  charm.  Hence,  too,  the  hope  and  the 

joy>  — 

"  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened ;  that  serene  and  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body  and  become  a  living  soul, 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony  and  the  deep  power  of  joy 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 

To  see  into  the  life  of  things,  —  here  is  the  pith 
of  Wordsworth's   genius ;    and   here,  again,  is  a 
power  that  differentiates  these  two  high  priests, 
among  the  more  austere  on  the  list  of  song. 
While    Bryant    is,  perhaps,  our    most   correct 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  135 

"  Nature  painter,"  the  treatment  of  Nature  is 
external  compared  with  the  treatment  of  his  own 
remote,  lofty  soul.  He  stands  at  the  altar, 
stately  and  calm,  compelling  the  elements  to 
bend  to  his  one  high  mood,  —  the  mood  of 
him  that  would  rise  to  the  Author  of  all  things, 
and  stand,  unspotted,  before  him. 

Wordsworth  received  frc  _^  Nature,  Bryant 
gave  to  her ;  Bryant  masters,  Wordsworth  is 
mastered.  Here  is  the  key  to  Bryant's  limita 
tion  ;  and  here  may  we  begin  to  account  for  his 
slight  production  in  point  of  quantity.  The  rare 
purity  and  nobility  of  spirit  being  once  cast  in 
language  noble  and  pure  as  the  spirit  itself,  the 
task  was  ended.  Material  so  precious  is  soon 
exhausted.  The  riches  of  Bryant's  nature  being 
compact  and  regularly  developed,  his  unerring 
judgment  deterred  him  from  idle  digging  on 
either  side  of  the  slender  gold-bearing  vein. 

The  poet  of  "unbought  grace"  has  always 
youth,  enthusiasm,  inspiration ;  these  are  among 
the  tests.  Bryant  was  born  old.  The  gain  was 
the  shortened  toil  toward  perfection ;  the  loss 
was  the  youth,  the  enthusiasm,  and  the  inspira 
tion.  Bryant's  reliance  was  not  on  the  poet's 
rock  of  strength,  inspiration,  but  on  a  substitute 
for  it,  —  as  good  a  one  as  may  be,  —  medi 
tation.  Nor  is  this  all ;  the  meditation,  though 
in  a  high,  broad  field,  is  in  that  one  field  and 


136  That  Dome  in  Air. 

that  only.  Even  the  Nature  wherein  he  sets  up 
his  altar  is  of  the  one  realm,  the  upper  realm 
of  quiet  and  peace,  the  region  of  "  supreme 
repose  "  :  — 

"  Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives." 

So  strong  is  the  tendency  toward  tranquillity  that 
the  burden  of  the  song  is  less  the  life  than  the 
fate  of  the  race.  Bryant  is  the  laureate  of  gentle, 
restful  death.  Plainly  as  this  is  shown  in  the 
"  Hymn  to  Death,"  it  is  as  plain  in  "  Thana- 
topsis,"  "A  Forest  Hymn,"  "The  Prairies;"  in 
nearly  all  the  poems,  long  and  short ;  it  is  the 
theme  of  the  perfect  lyric,  embodying  the  love 
liest  and  most  familiar  lines  of  all  the  thirteen 
thousand. 

Thoroughly  aware,  as  we  are  in  Bryant,  of  the 
vegetarian  even  to  the  verse,  a  little  shivery  with 
the  chillness,  ever  and  anon  we  would  bespeak 
for  the  white  fane  a  red  coal  from  the  roaring 
forge  of  our  "  Kosmos  "  ;  we  would  be  only  too 
glad  of  a  live  word,  as  out  of  the  whirlwind, 
sounded  by  the  other  revolter,  the  great  English 
rebel,  able  to  lead  more  fractious  legions  than 
shall  ever  rise,  head  and  host  in  himself,  — 
sounded  by  him  who  with  one  bold  love-push 
comes  at  the  very  heart :  — 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  137 

"Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning  !  how  he  sets  his  bones 
To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth ; 
Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 
The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet." 

Indeed,  we  do  not  strike  so  high ;  we  would 
relish  a  throb  from  the  pulse  of  one  of  our 
almosts  :  — 

"The  Spring  is  here,  —  the  delicate-footed  May 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers; 
And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 
Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours, — 
A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 
Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things." 

A  little  color,  a  little  warmth,  a  little  of  the 
something  that  comes  close,  —  we  fairly  hunger 
for  it.  This  is  but  another  way  of  saying  that 
Bryant,  strong  in  simplicity  and  sensuousness,  is 
weak  in  passion,  —  a  point  made  before,  when 
was  noted  the  absence  of  youth  and  enthusiasm. 
The  coldness  of  Bryant  —  though  he  is  never 
down  to  the  degree  marked  by  the  French  critic 
that  would  have  his  verses  bound  in  fur  —  is  of 
far-reaching  influence.  The  all-conquering  order 
of  imagination  has  its  bed  and  procreant  cradle 
in  warmth,  passion.  Imagination  is  not  a  fixed 
thing ;  there  are  degrees,  there  are  kinds,  of  it 
as  well  as  of  the  reasoning  power  and  of  emotion. 


138  That  Dome  in  Air. 

The  kind  of  imagination  characteristic  of  Bryant 
is  to  be  found  in  such  lines  as  these  :  — 

"  Or  haply  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 
And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  ;  — 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 
And  crossing  arches  ;  and  fantastic  aisles 
Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 
Among  the  crowded  pillars." 

For  a  passage  of  exceptional  vigor  and  move 
ment,  we  may  quote  from  the  "  Hymn  to 
Death,"  — 

"  And  when  the  reveller, 
Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 
And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the  path  of  life 
Like  wind,  thou  point'st  him  to  the  dreadful  goal, 
And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling  eye, 
And  check'st  him  in  mid-course." 

Among  the  lines  cited  by  Stedman  as  illustrative 
of  Bryant's  imagination  are  the  following,  from 
"  Thanatopsis"  :  - 

"  And,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste." 

"  Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  the  dead  are  there." 

True  imagination ;  but  put  it  beside  the  imagina 
tion  all  aglow  with  emotion,  — 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  139 

"  And  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  — 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

Here  we  have  two  kinds,  certainly  two  degrees, 
of  imagination ;  and  there  is  as  great  a  distance 
between  them  as  there  is  between  the  lyrics, 
"  The  Yellow  Violet  "  and  "  The  Solitary  Reaper." 
Stedman  quotes  also  from  "'  A  Rain-Dream,"  — 

"  'T  is  the  Wind  of  night ; 
A  lonely  wanderer  between  earth  and  cloud, 
In  the  black  shadow  and  the  chilly  mist, 
Along  the  streaming  mountain-side,  and  through 
The  dripping  woods,  and  o'er  the  plashy  fields, 
Roaming  and  sorrowing  still,  like  one  who  makes 
The  journey  of  life  alone,  and  nowhere  meets 
A  welcome  or  a  friend,  and  still  goes  on 
In  darkness." 

Set  this  against  ten  words  from  the  great 
"  Laker,"  - 

"a  mind  forever 
Voyaging  through  strange  seas  of  thought  alone." 

Take  "  The  Prairies,"  which  Stoddard  says  is 
worth  going  to  the  end  of  the  world  to  write  :  — 


140  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  Lo  !  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  forever." 

This  is  excellent ;  but  mate  it  with  the  imagina 
tion  of  the  scornful  Georgian,  a  few  traces  of 
whom  Swinburne  has  kindly  permitted  to  re 
main  :  — 

"  The  eternal  surge 

Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 
Our  bubbles  ;  as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lashed  from  the  foam  of  ages  ;  while  the  graves 
Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  .passing  waves." 

Will  the  two  imaginings  mate?  No  more  than 
will  these  :  — 

"  I  lie  and  listen  to  her  mighty  voice  : 
A  voice  of  many  tones,  sent  up  from  many  streams 
That  wander  through  the  gloom,  from  woods  unseen 
Swayed  by  the  sweeping  of  the  tides  of  air, 
From  rocky  chasms  where  darkness  dwells  all  day, 
And  hollows  of  the  great  invisible  hills, 
And  sands  that  edge  the  ocean,  stretching  far 
Into  the  night  —  a  melancholy  sound!  " 

"  The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea. 
Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  everlastingly." 

But  we  have  gone  far  enough,  perhaps,  to  ex 
hibit  the  kind,  or  grade,  of  Bryant's  imagination. 
Stress    has    been  laid  on  the  limitations  and 


William  Cullen  Bryant  141 

deficiencies  of  America's  first  poet,  —  first  in 
time,  and  one  of  the  first  in  excellence.  In  his 
case,  as  in  that  of  the  other  poets  reviewed,  the 
purpose  has  been  to  listen  to  the  voice,  forgetting 
as  far  as  possible  who  it  is  that  sings ;  for  poetry, 
not  the  poet,  must  be  first  in  the  thought  if  the 
estimate  is  to  be  just  and  instructive.  With  the 
characteristics  of  great  poetry  in  mind,  Bryant 
reveals  —  to  sum  up  —  a  lofty  soul,  a  strong, 
broad  mind  of  exquisite  poise,  a  sure  eye  for 
natural  things,  and  the  cunning  of  art  to  give 
these  possessions  perfect  expression. 

It  would  be  gratifying  indeed  were  the  per- 
fectness  of  Bryant's  expression  generally  appre 
ciated  ;  but  poetry  is  little  read,  and  there  can 
be  small  hope  of  widespread  appreciation  of  it 
till  the  heart  of  the  poet's  work  is  plucked  out 
and  held,  dripping,  before  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
To  do  this  looks  something  like  murder,  but  no 
gentler  proceeding  will  catch  and  rivet  the  roving 
eyes  of  the  multitude.  To  edit  a  poet  savors 
of  the  criminal,  but  it  so  savors  mainly  to  our 
reverence  and  affection,  qualities  as  misleading  as 
they  are  admirable.  In  strict  truth  there  could 
be  neither  a  wiser  nor  a  tenderer  tribute  paid 
the  hallowed  memory  of  our  poets  than  to  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  their  work,  and  hold  it  up  to 
universal  gaze  ;  and  the  service  so  rendered  to 
the  people  would  transcend  many  a  loud  sug- 


142  That  Dome  in  Air. 

gestion  for  reform  and  improvement.  In  the 
face  of  the  many  compilations  now  extant,  a  vol 
ume  of  fifty  poems  could  be  selected  from  the 
works  of  Bryant,  Emerson,  Holmes,  Whittier, 
Longfellow,  and  Lowell,  that  would  not  only 
surprise  the  English-speaking  world  with  the 
worth  of  American  verse,  but  would  prove  a 
potent  stroke  for  culture.  Bryant,  for  example, 
wrote  one  hundred  and  sixty  poems ;  while  it  is 
on  a  dozen  of  these  that  his  fame  rests.  The 
dozen  include  the  others ;  they  are  really  all,  they 
are  Bryant.  As  with  him,  so  it  is  with  the  rest 
of  our  poets,  with  all  poets  of  all  times  and  lands, 
the  masters  excepted,  whose  number  can  be  reck 
oned  by  the  count  of  one's  fingers.  To  read  the 
poets  is  impossible,  to  read  the  heart  of  them  is 
possible  ;  and  it  would  mean  much  for  moral  ele 
vation,  for  spiritual  growth,  for  the  love  of  pure 
beauty,  were  it  part  of  our  schooling  to  be  thor 
oughly  familiar  with  the  following  poems,  and 
with  a  like  small  number  of  others  that  represent 
a  half-dozen  of  our  poets  severally  as  these  do 
the  "Father  of  American  Song":  "Thanatop- 
sis,"  "To  a  Water  Fowl,"  "A  Winter  Piece," 
"A  Forest  Hymn,"  "June,"  "The  Death  of 
the  Flowers,"  "The  Evening  Wind,"  "The 
Prairies." 

Attention  being  called  to  Bryant's  fifty  years' 
service  in  practical  affairs,  to  his  original  use  of 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  143 

the  noble  metre  that  was  the  natural  outlet  of  his 
soul,  and  the  medium  through  which  he  rewaked 
the  strains  of  the  old  father  of  the  fathers  of  song, 
it  remains  to  observe  that,  if  the  trend  of  song 
has  been  steadily  away  from  the  model  on  which 
he  built,  fashion  is,  of  all  things,- the  most  ephem 
eral,  and,  let  change  and  divergence  work  as  they 
may,  the  voices  of  our  choir  will  ever  blend  in 
proud  recognition  of  their  venerable  head. 


VII. 

WALT   WHITMAN. 

takes  one  wild  poet  to  hit  off  another, 
and  we  may  begin  with  Whitman  by 
applying  to  him  Joaquin's  words  anent 
Walker,  the  warrior,  — "  He  was  a  brick  !  " 
"  Brick "  and  "  bard  "  are  hardly  synonymous 
terms,  but  what  matter?  There  are  other  needed 
folk  besides  poets,  and  it  may  be  that,  forty  years 
ago,  we  were  in  just  the  predicament  to  cry,  "  My 
kingdom  for  a  'brick'!"  Such,  assuredly,  was 
Whitman's  notion  ;  and  with  slouch  hat,  and  hand 
on  hip,  he  stepped  in. 

"  Apart  from  the  pulling  and  hauling  stands. what  I  am, 
Stands    amused,    complacent,    compassionating,    idle, 

unitary, 
Looking  with  side-curved  head  curious  what  will  come 

next, 

Both  in  and  out  of  the  game  and  watching  and  wonder 
ing  at  it." 

Bravo,  Walt !  We  surmised  that  the  book 
worm,  the  dude,  the  prude,  the  whole  finikin 
family,  would  catch  it ;  and  they  have. 


Walt  Whitman.  145 

Whitman  is  well  worth  heeding,  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  for  his  insistence  on  the  forgotten 
fact  that  we  are  not  born  with  our  clothes  on, 
and  that  nature  no  more  than  he  himself  has  a 
predilection  for  "neuters  and  geldings."  If  his 
language,  in  dealing  with  these  truths,  waxes  so 
emphatic  as  to  wipe  clean  out  the  last  trace  of 
moderation,  to  strip  off  the  last  layer  of  delicacy, 
let  us  remember  that  the  "brick"  does  nothing 
by  halves,  and  keep  up  our  end.  No  nibbling 
at  "  Leaves  of  Grass  ; "  we  must  fall  to  ox- fashion, 
whipping  up  whole  mouthfuls.  We  must  take 
things  as  they  come,  —  "  koboos,"  "hind  shoul 
ders,"  "mystic  deliria,"  "aliens,"  "space  and 
time,"  "  tough  pimples "  of  alligators,  "  Ma 
femme,"  "libertad,"  "  life  and  death,"  "  Kneph," 
"  teff-wheat,"  "  fierce-throated  beauties "  of 
locomotives,  "  trottoirs,"  "  tympan  of  the  ears," 
—  all  the  infinity  of  sprigs  in  the  "  bouquets  of 
incomparable  feuillage."  It  is  tough  fodder;  but 
we  can  grind  with  a  will,  since  't  is  death  to  the 
neuter  and  the  gelding.  We  shall  get  rid  of 
"  sich,"  at  least,  and  those  of  us  that  survive  will 
have  the  satisfaction  henceforth  of  being  able  to 
stand  up  to  the  rack  with  good  bovine  appetite, 
able  to  take  whatever  Pan  or  Pandemonium  may 
provide. 

There  are  two  sides  to  the  question  of  civiliza 
tion,  as  to  all  questions,  and  it  is  only  fair  that 
10 


146  That  Dome  in  Air. 

the  wild  side  should  now  and  then  have  its  innings. 
Enough,  therefore,  if  we  find  two  lines  in  "  So 
Long "  made  good  throughout  the  volume,  — 

"  Camerado,  this  is  no  hook  ; 
Who  touches  this  touches  a  man." 

Though  this  is  not  the  whole  truth  about 
"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  certain  it  is  that  we  find,  first 
of  all,  a  robust,  unabashed,  magnetic  fellow-crea 
ture,  —  a  being  that  no  man  of  pulse  and  stomach 
can  afford  to  pass  by.  He  "  of  Manhattan  the 
son,"  is  a  figure,  a  live  figure,  if  not  in  literature, 
out  of  it  —  somewhere,  illustrating  the  proposition 
that  it  is  a  magnificent  thing  to  be  a  first-class 
"  human  critter."  "  Well,  he  looks  like  a  man," 
said  Lincoln ;  and  so  say  we,  all  of  us,  as  we 
plunge  along  behind  him  through  the  lusty  Grass- 
leaves. 

The  finikin  family  find  it  a  fact  in  their  favor 
that  the  highest  encomium  on  our  "  Kosmos " 
has  come  from  the  superintendent  of  a  lunatic 
asylum.  The  finikinese  are  precipitous,  they 
begin  at  the  wrong  end  ;  they  are  thinking  rather 
of  the  bard  than  of  the  " brick";  and  they  are 
not  quite  the  witnesses  for  a  "  brick,"  anyhow. 
Let  art  and  chaos  have  it  out,  while  we  hold  to 
the  fact  that  a  big  "  brick  "  of  a  "  human  critter  " 
is  altogether  too  substantial  a  thing  to  be  whisked 
out  of  sight  by  a  smart  saying.  Mind  your  reck- 


Walt  Whitman.  147 

oning,  "dulce  affetuosos,"  and  see  that  you  try 
not  to  be  in  two  places  at  once.  We  bide  not 
just  now 

"  Where  Orpheus  and  where  Homer  are  "; 

we  are  simply  with  Walt,  on  the  morning  side  of 
Manhattan  or  "  yahonking  "  with  the  wild  gan 
ders,  heaven  knows  exactly  where.  Away  with 
your  Dante  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton ;  stick 
we  to  Whitman,  while  he  "  lets  down  the  bars  to 
a  good  lesson  "  in  health,  strength,  out-and-out- 
ness,  trust  and  happiness,  in  many  a  good  old 
solid  doctrine.  While  we  shall  be  overjoyed  to 
receive  a  new  Solomon  or  a  new  Shakespeare  as 
soon  as  he  can  possibly  come,  make  we  the  most 
of  what  we  have ;  and  it  is  doubtful  if  we  have 
anything  better  for  the  nonce  than  this  strapping, 
yawping  boy,  pet  of  the  good  old  Mother. 

"  To  behold  the  day-break  I 
The  little    light   fades  the   immense    and   diaphanous 

shadows, 
The  air  tastes  good  to  my  palate." 

"  Smile,  O  voluptuous  cool-breathed  earth  ! 
Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees  I 
Earth  of  departed  sunset  —  earth  of  the  mountains 

misty-topt ! 
Earth   of   the   vitreous   power   of  the  full  moon,  just 

tinged  with  blue  !  " 

These  lines  are  more  than  dithyrambics ;  they 
are  the  credentials  of  a  square-backed,  thunder- 


148  That  Dome  in  Air. 

ing  son  of  the  ground,  stamped  with  the  sign 
manual  of  the  Mother. 

Neither  is  the  stickler  for  poetry  to  be  wholly 
disappointed.  If  the  hand  is  that  of  the  Sons 
of  Anak,  the  heart  is  that  of  the  poet.  Whitman 
is  keen  on  the  poet's  trail ;  he  knows  where  the 
fat  pastures  are.  The  raw  material  of  song  —  he 
is  always  up  to  the  chin  in  that ;  and  the  raw 
material  of  song  is  not  apt  to  glut  the  market. 
Nor  are  faith  and  joy  any  too  plenty.  If  we  find 
these  essential  and  permanent  things,  is  it  not 
enough?  Really,  it  should  be,  and  we  ought  to 
be  glad  of  a  chance  to  hearten  up,  and  hurry 
after  our  Paumanokian  "  camerado,"  washing 
our  palate  with  the  clean  air  as  we  go,  halting 
now  and  then  to  let  the  bay  mare  and  what  not 
shame  the  silliness  out  of  us.  In  sober  truth  we 
are  a  sophisticated  lot,  and  none  too  tight  in  the 
knees  ;  in  very  truth  we  need  the  "  flaunt  of  the 
sunshine  "  and  some  "  brick "  of  a  "  human 
critter  "to  "  blow  grit  "  in  us.  For  this  purpose 
Whitman, 

"  Stout  as  a  horse,  affectionate,  haughty,  electrical," 

has  his  place.  It  is  not  the  niche  of  him  that 
chiselled  the  Venus  de  Milo,  or  of  him  that  be 
queathed  us  the  griefs  of  Antigone ;  but  it  is  a 
niche,  and  one  not  the  easiest  to  fill. 

The  "  bravuras  of  birds"  and  the  "bustle  of 


Walt   Whitman.  149 

growing  wheat  "  —  these  are  no  mean  things,  of 
themselves ;  and  when  we  add  to  a  renewal  of 
our  acquaintance  with  these  and  their  associates 
a  freshened  interest  in  the  natural  man,  and, 
withal,  "  good  heart  as  a  radical  possession  and 
habit,"  we  establish  a  mission  few  are  either  pre 
pared  or  inclined  to  undertake.  Whitman  does 
undertake  it,  and  fulfils  it  after  a  fashion.  He 
is  the  physician  for  certain  disorders  —  if  one 
can  take  his  doses.  It  is  answered  that  the 
"if"  upsets  all;  that  only  the  iron-nerved 
and  ostrich-mawed  can  swallow  his  heroic  po 
tions,  and  that  for  these  physic  is  superfluous. 
Granted;  nevertheless  the  halest  are  not  without 
their  ailings,  and  Whitman  may  have  a  busy 
practice,  though  confined  to  the  weak  spots  in 
those  that  forget  that,  after  all,  Achilles  had  a 
heel. 

The  chapter  in  "  November  Boughs  "  entitled 
"A  Backward  Glance  o'er  Travelled  Roads" 
reveals  Whitman  as  a  middle-aged  man,  pos 
sessed  of  a  "  feeling  or  ambition  "  worthy,  in 
deed,  of  a  hero  ;  namely,  — 

"To  articulate  and  faithfully  express  in  literary 
or  poetic  form  and  uncompromisingly  my  own  physi 
cal,  emotional,  moral,  intellectual,  and  aesthetic  per 
sonality  in  the  midst  of  and  tallying  the  momentous 
spirit  and  facts  of  its  immediate  days  and  of  current 
America,  and  to  exploit  that  personality,  identified 


150  That  Dome  in  Air. 

with  place  and  date,  in  a  far  more  candid  and  com 
prehensive  sense  than  any  hitherto  poem  or  book." 

Again  he  says,  — 

"  From  another  point  of  view  'Leaves  of  Grass  ' 
is  avowedly  the  song  of  sex  and  amativeness,  and 
even  animality  —  though  meanings  that  do  not 
usually  go  along  with  those  words  are  behind  all,  and 
will  duly  emerge  —  and  all  are  sought  to  be  lifted 
into  a  different  light  and  atmosphere. 

"  I  say  the  profoundest  service  that  poems  or  any 
other  writings  can  do  for  their  reader  is  not  merely 
to  satisfy  the  intellect  or  supply  something  polished 
and  interesting,  nor  even  to  depict  great  passions  or 
persons  or  events,  but  to  fill  him  with  vigorous  and 
clean  manliness,  religiousness,  and  give  him  good 
heart  as  a  radical  possession  and  habit." 

Obviously  enough,  when  our  mariner  of  Man- 
nahatta  set  out,  mighty  waters  were  launched 
upon ;  and  if  they  were  not  conquered  from 
shore  to  shore,  we  have  only  to  record  once 
more  the  limitation  of  human  effort,  the  balking 
of  laudable  ambition,  and  to  be  thankful  for  the 
success  so  far  as  it  goes.  Any  personality  is  no 
small  theme,  and  Whitman's  was  no  small  per 
sonality.  To  tally  the  "  momentous  spirit  and 
facts "  of  American  life  for  twoscore  years  — 
this  alone  is  an  undertaking  likely  to  keep  one 
active. 


Walt  Whitman.  151 

But  the  articulation  is  to  be  something  more ; 
it  is  to  be  poetry,  —  art.  The  extent  to  which, 
in  the  writer's  judgment,  this  Titan's  task  was 
performed  has  been  indicated.  Others  go  fur 
ther,  averring  that,  beyond  his  personality  and 
nature  and  the  natural  man,  our  author  em 
bodies,  as  he  essays  to,  "  current  America  "  and 
"democracy"  in  general,  together  with  many 
another  bit  of  extensiveness ;  all  this  "  in  poetic 
form."  As  for  America  and  democracy,  is  not 
the  "tough"  somewhat  too  triumphant;  are  not 
the  "  vivas  "  a  little  too  loud  for  the  "  fancy  man 
and  rowdy  "  ;  are  not  the  "  snag-toothed  hostler  " 
and  the  scavenger  somewhat  too  emphatic?  Un 
doubtedly,  the  expanse  of  territory,  the  pros 
perity  of  material  interests  and  the  free-arid-easy 
government  of  our  new  republic  have  fostered 
extremes,  both  in  sentiment  and  diction ;  still  it 
is  possible  that  Whitman's  writings  are  so  far 
from  voicing  "  current  America"  as  not  to  sound 
clearly  even  the  note  of  modern  times.  To-day, 
"  Americanos,"  with  other  civilized  folk  the 
world  over,  live  in  a  time  which,  for  instance, 
sinks  the  individual.  Imagine  our  "  imperturbe," 
for  whom  space  is  a  bandbox,  and  the  past 
nations  of  the  earth  mere  preludes  to  his  prodi 
gious  appearance,  —  imagine  him  of  all  men  in  the 
role  of  spokesman  for  such  a  period  !  The  heart 
of  Whitman's  strength  lies  largely  in  his  resist- 


152  That  Dome  in  Air. 

ance  to  his  time,  in  his  onslaught  of  the  semi- 
savage  upon  the  "  civilizee."  In  both  spirit  and 
method  he  belongs  back  in  the  simpler,  stronger, 
gladder  days.  Much  at  home  as  he  makes  him 
self  in  the  thundering  bustle,  amid  the  astonish 
ing  conquests  peculiar  to  the  period,  after  all, 
the  secret  of  his  power  is  to  be  traced  to  his  kin 
ship  with  the  able-bodied,  unsophisticated,  be 
lieving,  joyous  early  man.  This  early  man, 
tricked  out  in  modern  fashion,  he  has  "ex 
ploited  "  ;  he  has  said  good  things  about  Nature  ; 
but  "  current  America "  and  "  democracy,"  it 
were  safer  to  say,  still  await  articulation. 

Whitman's  articulation,  whatever  it  be,  is  in 
his  own  way.  Is  Whitman's  way  the  poet's  way? 
Certain  critics,  certain  poets,  so  affirm.  Here 
some  of  us  must  call  a  halt,  and,  if  such  be  the 
poetic  form  of  democracy,  cry,  Feudalism  for 
ever  !  The  shining  target  for  the  Finikin  family, 
the  superintendent  of  lunatics,  before  mentioned, 
says,  — 

"  I  am  myself  fully  satisfied  that  Walt  Whitman 
is  one  of  the  greatest  men,  if  not  the  very  greatest 
man,  that  the  world  has  so  far  produced." 

Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  adds,  - 

"  I  sincerely  believe  him  to  be  of  the  order  of 
great  poets.  ...  His  voice  will  one  day  be  potential 
or  magisterial  wherever  the  English  language  is 
spoken." 


Walt  Whitman.  153 

There  is  nothing  faint-hearted  about  these 
announcements ;  the  honors  for  courage  resting 
easy  between  them.  While  the  point  raised  by 
Mr.  Rossetti  is,  in  one  sense,  secondary,  in 
another  it  is  of  prime  importance,  affecting,  as  it 
does,  not  only  Whitman,  but  the  art  of  poetry  at 
large.  It  is  strange  enough  that,  while  the  great 
laws  of  Nature,  once  formulated,  are  settled  for 
ever,  equally  sovereign  laws  of  art  must  be  set  up 
over  and  over,  lest  the  multitude,  ay,  the  critics 
and  poets,  be  led  astray.  Whitman  did  not 
revolt  against  art,  says  one  that  should  know, 
since  he  was  not  born  in  some  such  regulative 
realm  and  reign  as  fell  to  the  lot  of  Queen 
Anne ;  being  born  in  America  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  he  is  "  remote  from  authority."  On 
these  terms  ours  is  a  free  land,  indeed.  Not 
all  America  can  rise  to  this  height  of  democ 
racy.  Some  among  us  find  that  at  the  North 
Pole  or  at  the  South  Pole,  or  at  any  station  be 
tween,  two  presences  have  authority  over  the 
poet.  Calendars  and  geographies  do  not  affect 
these  ;  they  are  indifferent  alike  to  Queen  Annes 
and  President  Harrisons.  Certain  critics  forget 
this  in  their  treatment  of  Browning,  forget  it 
again  in  the  case  of  Browning's  brother  revolter. 
Poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty  —  these  are  pres 
ent  forever,  and  absolute  in  authority;  and  to 
these  Whitman  does  not  submit,  against  these  he 
does  revolt. 


154  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  Of  the  order  of  great  poets  "  !  What  is  Mr. 
Rossetti  saying?  All  the  great  poets  together 
do  not  number  more  than  a  dozen,  and  Walt  is 
to  make  the  dozen  a  baker's.  In  the  great  poet 
we  have  high  imagination,  great  thought,  great 
constructive  power,  perfect  form,  supernal  music 
and  beauty.  If  we  are  not  sure  that  these  are  to 
be  found  in  Tennyson,  we  shall  do  well  to  think 
many  times  before  swearing  that  one  cannot 
fail  to  find  them  in  the  thirteenth  member  of 
the  sovereign  circle,  in  him  hailing  from  "  fish- 
shape  Paumanok."  Had  Mr.  Rossetti  exclaimed, 
"  Jabber  of  Caliban,  belch  of  chaos  !  "  he  would 
have  done  Whitman  no  more  injustice  than  he  has 
done  the  art  of  poetry  in  the  expression,  "  of  the 
order  of  great  poets."  With  "  Leaves  of  Grass  " 
in  one  hand  and  the  elementary  principles  of 
any  poetry,  great  or  small,  in  the  other,  possibly 
the  critic  will  find  the  division  "  Songs  of  My 
self,"  what  the  author  styles  it,  —  "  yawp  "  ;  the 
division  "Children  of  Adam,"  eroticism  cropped 
of  its  first,  third,  and  fourth  syllables  ;  the  rest  of 
the  volume,  in  the  main,  a  series  of  instantaneous 
photographs,  paralleled  only  by  the  cavorting  of 
Muybridge's  horses. 

Few  "  Americanos  "  claim  for  their  country,  as 
yet,  a  great  poet ;  the  most  of  us  think,  however, 
that  "  these  States  "  can  make  a  showing  of  sev 
eral  genuine  poets.  Whitman  may  have  been  a 


Walt  Whitman.  155 

greater  man  th'an  any  of  our  poets ;  he  may  have 
done  a  more  useful  work  than  theirs,  —  these  are 
other  questions,  not  to  be  considered  here,  —  but 
the  work  was  done  in  his  own  way,  not  in  their 
way,  not  in  the  poet's  way.  Indeed,  on  the  point 
of  art,  we  are  compelled  to  find  in  "  Leaves  of 
Grass,"  instead  of  the  inauguration  of  a  new 
literature,  a  revival  of  the  raw  period  before  liter 
ature  was,  —  the  progress  of 

"  the  irregular  crab 

Which,  though  't  go  backward,  thinks  that  it  goes  right, 
Because  it  goes  its  own  way." 

Walt  went  at  his  work  in  his  own  way,  with  his 
trousers  in  his  boots  and  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled 
up ;  the  way,  after  all,  proved  commendably 
effective.  Here  we  should  stop ;  not  go  on  to 
say  that,  because  he  can  with  one  Sullivanic 
punch  floor  a  dozen  mincing  "eleves,"  be 
cause  he  calls  without  ceasing  on  all  with  any 
blood  in  their  veins  to  stand  up,  to  enjoy  them 
selves,  to  "  loaf,"  and  again  to  "whack  away," 
—  because  he  does  this  and  much  more  of  the 
sort,  that  he  "  articulates  "  anything  in  "  poetic 
form."  We  should  not  be  done  up  in  the 
"  eleves,"  nor  should  we  be  afraid  of  a  brush 
with  the  world,  of  a  frisk  with  the  flesh  and  the 
devil ;  but  we  should  insist  upon  it  that  in  song 
"  yawp  "  can  never  be  "  potential  or  magiste 
rial  "  ;  that  we  step  beyond  the  boundary  line  of 


156  That  Dome  in  Air. 

art  the  moment  we  begin  to  "  loaf v  or  to  "whack 
away."  Whitman  was  a  king  in  the  realm  of 
physique,  an  emperor  in  the  realm  of  comrade 
ship,  —  in  short,  a  giant  of  his  shaggy,  hearty  kind  ; 
all  this,  however,  and  much  more  with  it  does 
not  necessitate  a  poet.  The  man,  the  child  of 
Nature,  the  patriot,  the  author  of  "  Leaves  of 
Grass,"  red  as  the  blood  ran  in  his  veins,  "lot" 
of  him  that  there  was,  "and  all  so  luscious,"  was 
not  animated  by  the  ichor  that  inspires  the  impe 
rial  line  of  the  sons  of  song.  Whitman  simply 
held  to  the  apron-strings  of  the  wise  old  Mother 
when,  at  the  outset,  he  strode  away  from  the 
circle  of  all  poets,  great  and  small. 

Since  Whitman  commands  admiration  for  what 
he  really  was,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  wrench 
elementary  laws  in  order  to  set  him  up  for  what 
he  was  not.  Much  of  the  commendation  of 
Emerson,  Symonds,  Thoreau,  and  even  of  Bur 
roughs,  is  merited ;  but  that  any  man  of  cul 
ture  can  find  Walt  a  great  poet,  is  disheartening 
enough  to  the  hopes  of  art.  The  sober  truth 
would  seem  to  be  that  one  piece,  "My  Captain," 
which  is  at  the  farthest  remove  from  the  bulk  of 
his  writings,  and  the  nearest  to  acknowledged 
models,  is  the  only  composition  in  "  Leaves  of 
Grass "  that  may  be  indisputably  termed  a 
poem. 

The  pieces  "Out  of  the    Cradle,  etc.,"  and 


Walt  Whitman.  157 

"  Lincoln's  Burial  Hymn/'  are  ranked  among 
the  more  convincing  witnesses  to  Whitman's 
poetic  gifts.  One  critic,  whose  word  goes  a 
long  way,  finds  the  "  Burial  Hymn"  "exquisitely 
idyllic"  ;  he  finds  it  in  the  "  melodious  manner," 
and  gives  it  a  place  —  it  cannot  be  said  how  near 
—  on  the  line  with  Lowell's  "  Commemoration 
Ode."  Let  us  read  the  opening  divisions, — 

i. 

"  When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 
And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in 

the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

"  Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 


"  O  powerful  western  fallen  star  ! 
O  shades  of  night  —  O  moody,  tearful  night ! 
O  great  star  disappear'd  —  O  the  black  murk  that  hides 

the  star  ! 
O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless  —  O  helpless  soul 

of  me  ! 
O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul ! 

3- 
"  In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the 

white-wash'd  palings, 
Stands   the   lilac-bush    tall-growing   with    heart-shaped 

leaves  of  rich  green, 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the 
perfume  strong  I  love, 


158  That  Dome  in  Air. 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle  —  and  from  this  bush  in  the 

dooryard, 
With  delicate  color'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves 

of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break." 

A  part  is  not  the  whole ;  but  if  there  are  few 
signs  of  more  than  the  raw  material  in  the  first 
seventeen  lines,  there  can  be  neither  the  exqui- 
siteness  nor  the  melody  the  poets  have  taught  us 
to  look  for  in  the  composition  entire.  Let  us 
read  the  first  six  lines  once  more,  — 

"  The  last  time  the  lilacs  blossomed  in  my  dooryard, 
it  was  a  season  of  mourning.  One  night,  gazing  on 
the  early  star  as  it  went  down  in  the  West,  I  stood, 
thinking  of  a  friend  lately  passed  away ;  and  now 
again  the  three  are  with  me,  —  the  lilacs,  the  star, 
and  the  grief.  They  are  with  me  now,  and  they  will 
always  be  with  me  at  this  season  of  the  year,  coming 
together  in  the  spring-time." 

Tried  by  any  test  or  standard,  from  Musneus 
down  to  Sir  Lewis  Morris,  what  is  there  of  poetry 
in  the  magisterial  dithyrambs  not  in  the  prose 
version?  What  beauty,  what  music,  what  atmos 
phere,  what  captivating  cadence,  is  present  to  give 
the  grass-leaves  the  advantage?  Nor  can  more 
be  discovered  to  differentiate  the  second  division, 
as  art,  from  the  diarial  apostrophes  to  be  found 
in  profusion  at  any  of  our  seminaries  for  young 
ladies.  In  the  third  division  there  are  instances 
of  a  good  eye  and  fine  sympathy  for  natural 


Walt  Whitman.  159 

things,  —  the  "  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green  " 
and  the  "  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate  "  ;  but 
occasional  words  and  phrases,  though  of  the 
choicest,  do  not  insure  an  exquisite  and  melo 
dious  idyl.  We  have  not  simply  to  say  over  the 
names  of  the  stars,  of  the  trees  and  flowers,  to 
win  the  laurels  of  a  Theocritus  or  a  Tennyson. 
If  Nature  is  to  be  the  poet,  she  can  do  her  own 
writing.  If  man  is  to  be  the  poet,  he  must  do 
his  own  writing ;  and  the  writing  must  be  more 
knightly  than  the  pricking  of  a  sway-backed  prose 
hack  over  a  poetic  road. 

"  There  is  no  man  in  the  marsh-land,  in  whose 
deep  pools  could  be  found  death,  whose  thick 
grasses  could  moor  a  boat  forever.  It  is  a  lonely 
place,  and  only  my  thought  is  there,  striving  to 
possess  it  all  with  wide  vision. 

"  Over  the  marsh-land  stray  odors  from  border 
flowers,  but  there  is  no  sense  to  harbor  them. 
Over  the  marsh-land  the  sound-waves  float,  but 
there  is  no  tongue  to  awaken  them  to  speech  and  no 
ear  to  receive  them.  In  the  marsh-land  is  God, 
without  the  souls  in  which  alone  He  shines  unto 
His  own  vision  ;  in  the  marsh-land  is  God,  a  light 
without  His  own  darkness. 

"  The  marsh-land  is  a  lonely  place  ;  there  is  no 
man  there.  Only  my  thought  is  there,  holding  what 
it  can  encompass  of  God." 

The  quotation  is  from  a  story-writer,  —  an 
Americana,  too  ;  but,  really,  if  the  "Burial  Hymn  " 


160  That  Dome  in  Air. 

is  poetry,  Miss  Wilkins  should  lose  no  time  in 
getting  together  her  "pastels  in  prose,"  and 
announce  a  new  volume  of  song. 

All  biases  aside,  nothing  in  our  minds  but  the 
wish  to  discover  the  link  coupling  the  "Burial 
Hymn  "  with  any  exquisite  or  melodious  poem, 
—  with  this  in  mind,  and  only  this,  we  are  in  a 
world,  not  void,  but  without  form ;  and  without 
form  there  is  no  poetry.  The  sack  of  raw  ma 
terial  is  simply  slit  and  allowed  to  leak ;  the  pro 
cess  is  a  mere  spilling,  gravitation  being  the  only 
law  of  order  at  work.  The  eye  runs  down  a  list 
of  exquisitely  idyllic  things,  but  the  setting  !  The 
occasional  felicities  of  word  and  phrase  only  em 
phasize  the  fact  that  they  are  aliens,  strangers  in 
a  strange  land.  It  is  unnecessary  to  go  through 
this  composition  line  by  line ;  but,  for  example, 
if  the  line, 

"  Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring," 

is  song,  idyllic  or  other,  we  have  but  to  twist 
every-day  speech,  to  spoil  our  common  talk,  and 
Olympus  is  won. 

Another  critic  finds  Whitman  the  "  clear  fore 
runner  of  the  great  American  poet."  While 
this  is  less  startling  than  Mr.  Rossetti's  dic 
tum,  a  glance  will  show  how  far,  in  point  of 
poetic  form,  we  are  behind  a  wild  bard  of  days 
bygone,  — 


Walt  Whitman.  161 

"As  roll  a  thousand  waves  to  the  rock, 

So  Swaran's  host  came  on  ; 
As  meets  a  rock  a  thousand  waves, 
So  Inisfail  met  Swaran." 

Or  again,  — 

"  My  love  is  a  son  of  the  hill ; 
He  pursues  the  flying  deer. 
His  gray  dogs  are  panting  round  him, 
His  bowstring  sounds  in  the  wind. 
Dost  thou  rest  by  the  fount  of  the  rock, 
Or  by  the  noise  of  the  mountain-stream? 
The  rushes  are  nodding  to  the  wind, 
The  mist  flies  over  the  hill." 

Vivas  for  Vinvela  !  We  hope  to  match  her 
music  some  day.  We  hope  to  catch  up  with 
her  and  Agandecca  leaving  the  "  hall  of  her 
secret  sigh,"  "  loveliness  around  her  as  a  light," 
and  "  her  steps  like  the  music  of  songs."  We 
take  courage ;  but  the  way  is  long  from  our  cur 
rent  American 

"  Girls,  mothers,  housekeepers,  in  all  their  performances." 

Of  the  critics  quoted,  three  live  on  the  thither 
shore  of  the  Atlantic.  The  immediate  inheritors 
of  the  greatest  literature  the  world  has  known, 
continue  to  fly  in  the  face  of  the  genius  that  gave 
it  them  whenever  the  matter  considered  is  an 
American  product.  The  critics  brought  up  on 
Shakespeare  and  Milton  find  the  nearest  American 
approach  to  these  in  writers  at  the  very  farthest 
remove  from  them,  yes,  distressingly  distant 


1 62  That  Dome  in  Air. 

from  the  humblest  of  their  successors?  Perhaps 
the  English  findings  in  the  case  of  our  literature 
are  all  based  on  the  "  remote- from-authority " 
theory.  Whatever  the  explanation  be,  the  fact  re 
mains  that  when  we  see  one  of  our  rimers  swing 
ing  it  round  the  British  Isle,  we  make  short  work 
of  the  mystery  by  surmising  that  things  were  not 
quite  comfortable  at  home.  Does  some  enthu 
siast  among  us  issue  a  volume  entitled  "  Gems 
from  Walt  Whitman,"  we  smile  over  the  sparkle 
of  the  first  gem,  — 

"  See,  projected  through  time, 
For  me  an  audience  interminable," 

and,  withdrawing  in  a  body,  leave  the  author  in 
the  undisturbed  enjoyment  of  the  jewels.  But 
whither  shall  we  flee,  where  hide  our  confusion, 
when  the  British  critic  in  high  place,  the  critic 
nurtured  in  the  air  and  light  of  the  winged 
Elizabethans,  says  to  us  that  he  finds  in  Whit 
man's  sayings  on  life  and  death  the  accent  of 
great  poetry,  of  such  lines  as  these,  — 

"  I  swear,  't  is  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow  " ; 


"For  within  the  hollow  crown 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king 
Keeps  death  his  court  " ; 


Walt   Whitman.  163 

"'T  is  of  all  sleeps  the  sweetest; 

Children  begin  it  to  us,  strong  men  seek  it, 

And  kings  from  height  of  all  their  painted  glories 

Fall,  like  spent  exhalations,  to  this  centre"; 


"  Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain  "  ? 

But  England  begins  to  redeem  herself;  Mr. 
Watts,  in  the  course  of  his  article,  "  Walt  Whit 
man,"  in  the  Athenaum  (April  2,  1892)  says: 
"  Poetic  genius  no  one  now  dreams  of  crediting 
him  with." 

It  is  time  for  a  word  of  accord.  It  is  generally 
recognized  that  Whitman  is  exceptionally  happy  in 
his  headings.  Happy  indeed  he  is  ;  so  happy,  in 
fact,  that  the  table  of  contents  of  "  Leaves  of 
Grass  "  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  the  body  of 
the  volume. 

"  To  the  garden  the  world,  from  pent-up  aching  rivers 
I  sing  the  body  electric. 
A  woman  waits  for  me,  spontaneous  me ; 
One  hour  to  madness  and  joy  — 

O  hymen  !     O  hymenee  !  " 

Surely  this  initiatory  bit  of  the  contents-table  of 
"  Children  of  Adam  "  might  with  propriety  find  a 
place  in  the  body  of  the  division,  there  to  suffer 
neither  in  point  of  rhythm  nor  of  consecutiveness 
of  thought. 


164  That  Dome  in  Air. 

But,  seriously,  we  gnaw  the  horn  searching  for 
poetry  in  "Leaves  of  Grass  "  ;  we  gnaw  the  horn, 
and  we  wrong  Walt.  Let  us  turn  from  Walt  "  of 
the  order  of  great  poets"  to  Walt  the  Wild,  the 
chanter  of  "  Calamus."  What  is  it,  Walt,  that  you 
say  about  death? 

"  They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere, 
The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death, 
And  if  ever  there  was  it  led  forward  life,  and  does  not 

wait  at  the  end  to  arrest  it, 
And  ceas'd  the  moment  life  appear'd. 
All  goes  onward  and  outward,  nothing  collapses, 
And  to  die  is  different  from  what  any  one  supposed,  and 

luckier. 

*  Has  any  one  supposed  it  lucky  to  be  born  ? 
I  hasten  to  inform  him  or  her  it  is  just  as  lucky  to  die, 
and  I  know  it." 


Through  me  shall  the  words  be  said  to  make  death  ex 
hilarating, 

Give  me  your  tone  therefore,  O  Death,  that  I  may  ac 
cord  with  it, 

Give  me  yourself,  for  I  see  that  you  belong  to  me  now 
above  all,  and  are  folded  inseparably  together,  you 
love  and  death  are, 

Nor  will  I  allow  you  to  balk  me  any  more  with  what  I 
was  calling  life, 

For  now  it  is  convey'd  to  me  that  you  are  the  purports 
essential, 

That  you  hide  in  these  shifting  forms  of  life,  for  reasons, 
and  that  they  are  mainly  for  you, 

That  you  beyond  them  come  forth  to  remain,  the  real 
reality, 


Walt  Whitman.  165 

That  behind  the  mask  of  materials  you  patiently  wait, 
no  matter  how  long, 

That  you  will  one  day  perhaps  take  control  of  all, 

That  you  will  perhaps  dissipate  this  entire  show  of  ap 
pearance, 

That  may-be  you  are  what  it  is  all  for,  but  it  does  not 
last  so  very  long, 

But  you  will  last  very  long." 

Shall  we  recant  ?  We  have  heard  all  this  be 
fore,  and  couched  in  terms  more  winning.  Once 
more  we  say  the  same  of  the  articulations  on 
"  democracy  "  and  "  current  America,"  and  pass 
ing  on,  with  a  glance  here  and  there,  stop  at  such 
places  as  these,  — 

"  I  will  effuse  egotism  and  show  it  underlying  all,  and  I 

will  be  the  bard  of  personality, 
And  I  will  show  of  male  and  female  that  either  is  but 

the  equal  of  the  other, 
And  sexual  organs  and  acts!  do  you  concentrate  in  me, 

for  I  am  determin'd  to  tell  you  with  courageous 

clear  voice  to  prove  you  illustrious." 


"  What  is  commonest,  cheapest,  nearest,  easiest,  is  Me, 
Me  going  in  for  my  chances." 

Herein  do  we  see  the  real  Whitman ;  herein 
do  we  find  him  at  home,  and  offering  first-hand 
matter,  as  is  his  wont  when  the  natural  man  and 
Nature  are  the  theme,  and  as  is  not  his  wont 
when  democracy,  or  war,  or  death,  or  manual 
labor  is  in  the  ascendant.  We  find  no  poems, 
nothing  nearer  it  than  the  suggestion  of  themes, 
as  in  the  line 


1 66  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"The  youngster  and  the  red-faced  girl  turn  aside  up  the 
bushy  hill," 

or  in  the  marching  title, 

"  As  I  walk  these  broad,  majestic  days." 

"  Expecting  the  main  things  from  you,"  Whitman 
says  to  us  naively.  Nothing  could  be  apter;  if 
we  are  to  have  poems,  we  must  furnish  them  our 
selves.  We  find  never  "  the  blossom  and  the  fra- 
grancy  of  all  human  knowledge,  human  thoughts, 
human  passions,  emotions,  language,"  but  "  roots 
and  leaves  themselves  alone."  We  find  not  the 
"autobiography  of  a  soul";  we  find  the  word 
soul,  but  the  thing  flesh,  perpetually,  even  to  the 
"  sweet-fleshed  day."  Walt  Whitman  had  a  soul ; 
but,  come  what  might,  it  would  weigh  some  two 
hundred  pounds,  and  wear  a  low-cut  collar.  In 
short,  we  find  in  this  last  hard  look,  not  a  poet, 
but  a  "brick"  of  a  "human  critter,"  with  whom 
we  will  "  go  gallivant,"  — 

"  I  know  I  am  august, 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  under 
stood, 

I  see  that  the  elementary  laws  never  apologize, 
(I  reckon  I  behave  no  prouder  than  the  level  I  plant  my 
house  by,  after  all.) 

"  Walt  Whitman,  a  kosmos,  of  Manhattan  the  son, 
Turbulent,  fleshy,  sensual,  eating,  drinking,  and  breed 
ing. 


Walt  Whitman.  167 

No  sentimentalist,  no  stander  above  men  and  women  or 

apart  from  them, 
No  more  modest  than  immodest." 

Ay,  we  will  "go  gallivant."  Have  but  a  dozen 
superior  souls  found  a  fraction  of  the  good  re 
ported,  every  one  of  us  must  find  something. 
Whitman  says  it  will  be  grit,  and  he  should 
know;  "clean  grit  and  human  natur,"  blasts 
of  them  driven  even  to  the  marrow.  The  poets 
crowned,  wound  from  top  to  toe,  there  is  plenty 
of  laurel  left  in  the  woods.  Nature  sees  to  it 
that  her  own  brows  are  not  stripped  naked,  and 
she  keeps  a  sprig,  too,  for  her  yawping  boy.  It  is 
idle  to  argue  with  the  fond  old  Mother.  "  I  know," 
she  answers  ;  "  but  he  is  my  boy  !  "  Yes,  we  will 
take  the  Mother's  word  for  it.  "Old  topknot" 
calls,  your  "head  slues  round  on  your  neck"; 
here  's  for  you,  Walt,  we  will  "go  gallivant"  ! 

"  Stop  this  day  and  night  with  me  and  you  shall  possess 
the  origin  of  all  poems, 

You  shall  possess  the  good  of  the  earth  and  sun,  (there 
are  millions  of  suns  left,) 

You  shall  no  longer  take  things  at  second  or  third  hand, 
nor  look  through  the  eyes  of  the  dead,  nor  feed  on 
the  spectres  in  books, 

You  shall  not  look  through  my  eyes  either,  nor  take 
things  from  me, 

You  shall  listen  to  all  sides  and  filter  them  from  your 
self." 

"  The  play  of  shine  and  shade  on  the  trees  as  the  supple 
boughs  wag." 


i68  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"The  hairy  wild  bee  that  murmurs  and  hankers  up  and 
down." 


The  wet  of  woods  through  the  early  hours.' 


"  But  I  am  that  which  unseen  comes  and  sings,  sings, 
sings, 

Which  babbles  in  brooks  and  scoots  in  showers  on  the 
land, 

Which  the  birds  know  in  the  woods  mornings  and  even 
ings." 

"  The  great  laws  take  and  effuse  without  argument, 
I  am  of  the  same  style,  for  I  am  their  friend, 
I  love  them  quits  and  quits,  I  do  not  halt  and  make 
salaams." 

"  I  lie  abstracted  and  hear  beautiful  tales  of  things  and 

the  reasons  of  things, 
They  are  so  beautiful  I  nudge  myself  to  listen." 


"  The  earth  good  and  the  stars  good,  and  their  adjuncts 
all  good." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  everything  in  the  light  and  air  ought 

to  be  happy, 

Whoever  is  not  in  his  coffin  and  the  dark  grave,  let  him 
know  he  has  enough." 


VIII. 

WILLIAM    BLAKE. 

:With  a  thousand  angels  upon  the  wind"  — 

[HERE,  and  so  accompanied,  rode  Blake 
the  mystic,  from  childhood  to  the  end 
of  his  threescore  and  ten.  The  poem 
entitled  "  Verses,"  from  which  this  line  is  taken, 
opens  with  couplets  that  fitly  introduce  the  singer 
so  strange  in  equipment  and  method,  standing 
well  toward  the  front  among  the  defiant  forces, 
the  insoluble  phenomena,  — 

"  With  happiness  stretched  across  the  hills 
In  a  cloud  that  dewy  sweetness  distils, 
With  a  blue  sky  spread  over  with  wings, 
And  a  mild  sun  that  mounts  and  sings ; 
With  trees  and  fields  full  of  fairy  elves, 
And  little  devils  who  fight  for  themselves, 
Remembering  the  verses  that  Hayley  sung 
When  my  heart  knocked  against  the  root  of  my  tongue, 
With  angels  planted  in  hawthorn  bowers, 
And  God  himself  in  the  passing  hours  ; 
With  silver  angels  across  my  way, 
And  golden  demons  that  none  can  stay." 


170  That  Dome  in  Air. 

We  are  swung  at  once  into  midair,  and  the 
natural  exclamation  is,  Madman  !  Blake,  in  his 
lifetime,  was  known  to  many  as  a  madman,  but 
let  us  not  be  too  hasty  in  consigning  great  gifts 
to  the  asylum  ;  for  Coleridge,  De  Quincey,  Byron, 
and  even  Wordsworth,  have  been  tracked  beyond 
the  bounds  of  sanity.  The  spice  of  madness  de 
manded  for  the  poet,  Blake  assuredly  had ;  and 
this  is  all  that  concerns  us  at  present. 

The  many  make  too  little  of  such  a  mind,  while 
a  few  make  too  much  of  it.  Mr.  Gilchrist  and 
Swinburne  are  guilty  on  the  side  of  over-apprecia 
tion.  If,  here  and  there,  are  applied  to  Blake 
adulatory  adjectives  larger  than  his  erratic  genius 
can  well  carry,  he  is  very  different  from  what  he 
has  been  found  to  be  by  his  detractors.  The 
sympathetic  reader  finds  a  deal  of  queerness,  a 
medley  of  Ezekiel,  Ossian,  and  an  innominable 
tertium  quid ;  finds  independence,  intolerance, 
wildness  ;  finds  incoherence,  vast  scattering,  rhap 
sody  thinning  away  into  nebula,  mysticism  slip 
ping  into  nonsense,  —  in  short,  defiance  of  much 
that  is  right  in  thought  and  in  method ;  finds 
this,  but,  mingled  with  it,  strains  and  whole 
poems  possible  only  to  the  poet  pure  and  simple, 
to  the  singer  by  the  grace  of  God.  Indeed, 
Blake,  at  his  best,  is,  what  we  should  always  joy 
to  discover,  an  excellent  illustration  of  the  old 
notion,  the  true  notion,  of  the  poet ;  with  imagi- 


William  Blake.  171 

nation,  vision,  faith,  enthusiasm,  he  has  the  poet's 
kind  of  thought,  his  straight  sight,  and  his  swift 
method,  his  fire  and  his  music  shining  and  sing 
ing  along  the  native,  inevitable  lines.  As  we 
read  the  place  of  his  birth,  there  is  something 
prophetic  in  the  names,  "Broad  Street,  Golden 
Square  "  j  of  a  truth,  he  was  the  babe  for  a  spa 
cious,  radiant  cradle. 

It  is  a  waste  of  time  to  look  for  system  in  the 
work  of  such  a  mind ;  as  in  the  case  of  Emerson, 
the  light  is  too  white  for  more  than  gleams,  flashes. 
Blake  is  a  reporter,  a  flesh-and-blood  conduit  for 
the  high  might  that  descends,  through  certain 
rare  organisms,  to  become  the  precious  possession 
of  men.  We  get  from  him  occasional  meteor 
streaks  of  prophecy ;  we  get  scattered  blossoms 
of  philosophy ;  we  hear  the  voice  of  the  teacher, 
indirect,  trembling  with  passion ;  we  listen  to  the 
joyous  songs  of  nature  and  of  "humble  livers" 
from  the  lips  of  one  the  color  of  whose  singing- 
robe  matches  the  sunset  purple  of  Wordsworth's  ; 
we  hear  the  last  echo  of  the  days  when  youth 
and  music  ruled  the  English  world ;  and,  having 
this,  we  have  something  harder  to  find  than 
theories  and  systems. 

The  vision  is  mightier  in  this  poet  than  the 
faculty  divine.  He  sees  so  much  that  he  forgets 
the  blindness  of  the  world ;  with  so  much  of  the 
poet  in  himself,  he  forgets  how  little  of  the  poet 
there  is  in  us ;  he  draws  the  rapid  outlines,  dashes 


172  That  Dome  in  Air. 

off  the  sketch,  and  our  own  imagination  is  left  to 
complete  the  picture.  It  should  not  be  forgotten, 
however,  that  in  many  cases  the  poems  are  but 
half  the  artistic  whole ;  that  it  was  Blake's  habit 
to  engrave  his  poems,  illustrating  them  with  col 
ored  drawings  round  the  page  or  on  a  separate 
page.  To  read  the  poems  apart  from  the  designs 
is  like  listening  to  Wagner's  operas,  blindfold.  To 
be  sure,  the  poems  must  stand  or  fall  by  them 
selves  ;  still  it  is  only  right  to  bear  in  mind  that 
without  the  illustrations  we  do  not  realize  the  full 
action  of  the  author's  imagination. 

Emerson  describes  himself  as  a  "  transparent 
eyeball,"  yet  his  vision  is  normal;  Blake's  vision 
is  abnormal.  If  Emerson  sees  more  than  he  can 
tell,  Blake  is  determined  that  language  shall  fel 
low  his  limitless  vision  :  — 

"  I  assert  for  myself  that  I  do  not  behold  the  out 
ward  creation,  and  that  to  me  it  is  hindrance  and  not 
action.  l  What ! '  it  will  be  questioned,  '  when  the 
sun  rises,  do  you  not  see  a  disc  of  fire,  somewhat 
like  a  guinea?'  'Oh  no,  no!  I  see  an  innumerable 
company  of  the  heavenly  host,  crying,  'Holy,  holy, 
holy  is  the  Lord  God  Almighty ! '  I  question  not 
my  corporeal  eye,  any  more  than  I  would  question 
a  window,  concerning  a  sight.  I  look  through  it, 
and  not  with  it." 

The  more  we  inquire  into  the  matter  of  art,  the 
more  evident  it  becomes  that  patience  is  of  the 
very  essence  of  success  in  it ;  but,  unluckily,  all 
the  patience  of  the  little  Blake  family  was  in  the 


William  Blake.  173 

heart  of  faithful,  black-eyed  Catherine.  Had  it 
been  among  the  temperamental  treasures  of  the 
master  of  the  house,  what  might  he  not  have 
done,  he  that  in  green  boyhood  can  remind  us 
of  the  old  masters  of  the  drama?  — 

"  And  may  our  duty,  Chandos,  be  our  pleasure.  — • 
Now  we  are  alone,  Sir  John,  I  will  unburden 
And  breathe  my  hopes  into  the  burning  air, 
Where  thousand  Deaths  are  posting  up  and  down, 
Commissioned  to  this  fatal  field  of  Cressy. 
Methinks  I  see  them  arm  my  gallant  soldiers, 
And  gird  the  sword  upon  each  thigh,  and  fit 
Each  shining  helm,  and  string  each  stubborn  bow, 
And  dance  to  the  neighing  of  our  steeds. 
Methinks  the  shout  begins,  the  battle  burns ; 
Methinks  I  see  them  perch  on  English  crests, 
And  roar  the  wild  flame  of  fierce  war  upon 
The  thronged  enemy  !     In  truth,  I  am  too  full ; 
It  is  my  sin  to  love  the  noise  of  war. 

Considerate  age,  my  lord,  views  motives, 

And  not  acts,  when  neither  warbling  voice 

Nor  trilling  pipe  is  heard,  nor  pleasure  sits 

With  trembling  age,  the  voice  of  Conscience  then, 

Sweeter  than  music  in  a  summer's  eve, 

Shall  warble  round  the  snowy  head,  and  keep 

Sweet  symphony  to  feathered  angels,  sitting 

As  guardians  round  your  chair ;  then  shall  the  pulse 

Beat  slow,  and  taste  and  touch  and  sight  and  sound 

and  smell, 
That   sing   and   dance    round    Reason's    fine-wrought 

throne, 

Shall  flee  away,  and  leave  him  all  forlorn  ; 
Yet  not  forlorn  if  Conscience  is  his  friend." 


174  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Further  along,  we  come  upon  the  splendid 
expression,  — 

"  Threatening  as  the  red  brow  of  storms." 
(In  passing,  the  adjective  "red"  illustrates  the 
inexplicable  poetic  force  of  certain  words.     We 
find  it  again  in  Beddoes's 

"  The  red  outline  of  beginning  Adam.") 

Blake  had  not  the  shaping  power  of  imagina 
tion  for  protracted  composition,  neither  was  he 
specially  fitted  for  the  favorite  effort  to  unite 
taste  with  condensation.  The  longer  pieces  are 
loose,  shapeless ;  and  worse  than  failures  are  such 
hyperbolic  announcements  as,  — 

"  A  game-cock  clipped  and  armed  for  fight 
Doth  the  rising  sun  affright  " ; 

"  Every  tear  from  every  eye 
Becomes  a  babe  in  eternity." 

Blake  poised  on  a  thin  ridge,  —  on  the  one  side 
chaos,  on  the  other  the  depth  of  the  ridiculous ; 
and  he  made  missteps  both  right  and  left.  True ; 
but  the  recovery  !  Not  only  does  he  balance  on 
the  height  once  more,  in  the  rest  of  the  blessed 
cloud,  but  rises  on  the  songbird's  wing,  and  circles 
and  carols  at  blissful  ease  in  the  empyrean. 

There  is  no  denying  that  Blake  is  prone  to  go 
"  beating  in  the  void."  We  must  expect  it  of 
one  that  can  write,  even  to  a  friend,  after  the 
following  fashion  :  — 


William  Blake.  175 

"  I  am  more  famed  in  heaven  for  my  works  than 
I  could  well  conceive.  In  my  brain  are  studies  and 
chambers  filled  with  books  and  pictures  of  old,  which 
I  wrote  and  painted  in  ages  of  eternity  before  my 
mortal  life  ;  and  these  works  are  the  delight  and 
study  of  archangels.  Why  then  should  I  be  anxious 
about  the  riches  or  fame  of  mortality?  The  Lord 
our  Father  will  do  for  us  and  with  us  according  to 
His  divine  will,  for  our  good.  You,  O  dear  Flax- 
man,  are  a  sublime  archangel,  —  my  friend  and  com 
panion  from  eternity.  In  the  divine  bosom  is  our 
dwelling-place.  I  look  back  into  the  regions  of 
reminiscence,  and  behold  our  ancient  days  before 
this  earth  appeared  in  its  vegetated  mortality  to  my 
mortal  vegetated  eyes.  I  see  our  houses  of  eternity, 
which  can  never  be  separated,  though  our  mortal 
vehicles  should  stand  at  the  remotest  corners  of 
heaven  from  each  other." 

The  visionary  that  can  so  write  has  no  diffi 
culty  in  summoning  the  builder  of  the  pyramids 
from  the  shades  to  sit  for  his  portrait ;  and  the 
completion  of  the  work  is  appropriately  celebrated 
by  repairing  to  the  garden  arbor,  there  to  while 
away  a  summer  hour  with  Catherine,  neither  of 
the  two  further  from  nakedness  than  were  the 
first  man  and  woman  of  sacred  legend  ere  yet 
the  fig-leaf  wear  came  into  fashion. 

But  it  is  not  always  in  the  void ;  the  author  of 
the  " Book  of  Thel  "is  at  home  on  the  ground, 
as  much  at  ease  there  as  are  the  "  Chimney- 
Svveeper  "  and  the  "Little  Black  Boy,"  yes,  as  are 
the  humblest  animal  and  plant. 


176  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  Names  alter,  things  never  alter." 


"  To  be  good  only  is  to  be 
A  God,  or  else  a  pharisee." 


"  Great  things  are  done  when  men  and  mountains  meet." 


"  He  who  has  suffered  you  to  impose  on  him  knows  you." 

If  on  the  one  side  is  madness,  on  the  other 
is  good  old-fashioned  sanity;  in  fact,  it  is  not 
difficult  for  Blake  to  be  as  worldly-wise  as  one 
could  wish.  Despite  his  abnormal  vision  and 
incoherent  utterance,  despite  his  inequality  and 
his  thousand  vagaries,  Blake  was  a  close  critic 
of  life.  While  his  vision  was  abnormally  active, 
the  range  is  round  a  few  elementary  principles. 
It  is  the  safe  circuit  of  Epictetus  himself;  the 
favorite  themes,  love,  youth,  and  childhood,  in 
dicating  not  only  sanity,  but  special  qualification 
for  the  office  of  poet.  Sweet-tempered  and 
joyous,  barring  the  few  lapses  unavoidable  by 
one  with  so  ardent  a  temperament,  he  saw  tne 
world  as  the  old  prophets  saw  it,  beautiful,  good ; 
he  trusted  it,  looked  up  from  it  to  the  Maker  of 
all,  and  sang  as  he  journeyed,  angels  overhead 
and  lambs  at  his  feet.  No  man  has  lived  a  more 
thoroughly  poetic  life ;  few  men  have  come  closer 
to  a  realization  of  his  own  happy  phrase,  a  "  shin 
ing  lot." 

For  an  instance  of  the  peculiar  manner  of  this 


William  Blake.  177 

reporter  of  life,  we  may  take  a  stanza  of  the 
poem  "Night,"  where  the  ever-present  angels 
are  exercising  their  gentle  office,  — 

"  They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest 
Where  birds  are  covered  warm  ; 

They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm  : 

If  they  see  any  weeping 

That  should  have  been  sleeping, 

They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 

And  sit  down  by  their  bed." 

This  is  unlike  anything  we  have  heard  before. 
Again,  he  says  of  Christ,  he 

"  O'erturned  the  tent  of  secret  sins, 
And  its  golden  cords  and  pins." 

And  in  that  intense  poem,  "Broken  Love,"  we 
have  the  stanza,  — 

"  A  deep  winter  dark  and  cold 

Within  my  heart  thou  dost  unfold  ; 

Iron  tears  and  groans  of  lead 

Thou  bind'st  around  my  aching  head." 

The  voice  sametimes  rises  to  a  shriek,  — 

"  The  God  of  war  is  drunk  with  blood, 
The  earth  doth  faint  and  fail ; 
The  stench  of  blood  makes  sick  the  heavens, 
Ghosts  glut  the  throat  of  hell !  " 

But  the  secret  of  genius  soon  confronts  us  again, 
hiding  in  such  lines  as  those  where  Dalila  lies  at 
the  feet  of  Samson,  — 

12 


178  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  He  seemed  a  mountain,  his  brow  among  the  clouds ; 
She  seemed  a  silver  stream,  his  teet  embracing." 

This  is  more  striking  than  Tennyson's  picture  of 
Vivien  at  the  feet  of  Merlin,  drawn  with  four 
times  as  many  lines  save  one,  — 

"  There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd  his  feet, 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair ;  a  robe 
Of  samite  without  price,  that  more  exprest 
Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome  limbs, 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March." 

Little  importance  attaches  to  the  environment 
as  a  means  of  accounting  for  Blake's  poetry. 
Swinburne  makes  too  much  of  it,  as  he  does  of 
the  oracles  of  the  poet's  later  period.  Blake 
was  kin  to  the  Elizabethans,  and  were  he  writing 
to-day  he  would  probably  take  his  inspiration 
from  them  as  surely  as  he  did  in  the  third 
quarter  of  the  last  century.  True,  Shakespeare 
and  the  whole  nest  of  singing  birds  were  being 
closely  studied  when  he  began  writing,  but  he 
was  just  the  man  to  find  them  out  at  any  time. 

If  the  Elizabethans  were  Blake's  inspiration, 
they  were  by  no  means  Blake.  Fuseli's  familiar 
admission  concerning  his  pictures  is  of  special 
significance  in  this  connection :  "  Blake  is  a 
damned  good  fellow  to  steal  from."  In  other 
words,  he  was  a  painter  full  of  original  ideas. 


William  Blake.  179 

The  same  may  be  said  of  him  as  a  poet.  We 
discover  in  Blake  touches,  perhaps  the  first,  that 
we  know  as  Coleridgean;  for  instance,  the  last 
stanza  of  "  The  Little  Boy  Lost,"  — 

"  The  night  was  dark,  no  father  was  there, 

The  child  was  wet  with  dew ; 
The  mire  was  deep,  and  the  child  did  weep, 
And  away  the  vapor  flew." 

Blake,  turn  whither  he  may  for  inspiration,  is 
an  original  genius ;  his  method  of  reporting  is 
his  own.  The  poems  bear  witness  to  this,  and 
their  testimony  is  both  confirmed  and  supple 
mented  by  the  kindred  but  distinct  expression 
from  which  they  should  not  be  divorced.  Mr. 
William  Rossetti,  author  of  the  descriptive  cata 
logue  of  Blake's  art  works,  uses  language  helpful 
in  the  effort  to  comprehend  the  expression  of 
this  most  daring  and  startling  soul  of  his  time,  — 

"'ELOHIM    CREATING   ADAM.' 

"  The  Creator  is  an  amazingly  grand  figure, 
worthy  of  a  primeval  imagination  or  intuition.  He 
is  struggling,  as  it  were,  above  Adam,  who  lies  dis 
tended  on  the  ground,  a  serpent  twined  around  one 
leg.  The  colour  has  a  terrible  power  in  it ;  and  the 
entire  design  is  truly  a  mighty  one. 
" «  FIRE.' 

"Blake,  the  supreme  painter  of  fire,  in  this  his 
typical  picture  of  fire,  is  at  his  greatest;  perhaps  it 
is  not  in  the  power  of  art  to  transcend  this  treatment 


I  So  That  Dome  in  Air. 

of  the  subject  in  its  essential  features.  The  water 
colour  is  unusually  complete  in  execution.  The  con 
flagration,  horrid  in  glare,  horrid  in  gloom,  fills  the 
background ;  its  javelin-like  cones  surge  up  amid 
conical  forms  of  buildings  ('  Langham  Church 
steeples,'  they  may  be  called,  as  in  No.  151).  In 
front,  an  old  man  receives  from  two  youths  a  box 
and  a  bundle  which  they  have  recovered ;  two 
mothers  and  several  children  crouch  and  shudder, 
overwhelmed;  other  figures  behind  are  running 
about,  bewildered  what  to  do  next." 

The  design  "When  the  Morning  Stars  Sang 
Together,"  is,  in  the  language  of  Dante  Rossetti, 
one  that  "  never  has  been  surpassed  in  the  whole 
range  of  Christian  art." 

We  have  noted  some  of  Blake's  defects.  His 
weaknesses,  his  failures,  conceded,  his  fame, 
without  the  aid  of  his  wondrous  work  in  the 
sister  art,  stands  firm  on  a  few  poems,  —  poems 
now  exquisite,  now  virile,  always  imaginative, 
musical,  and  masterly.  If  ever  poet  was  born, 
it  was  the  author  of  these  lines,  written  when  he 
had  barely  entered  the  teens,  — 

"  How  sweet  I  roamed  from  field  to  field, 

And  tasted  all  the  summer's  pride, 
Till  I  the  Prince  of  Love  beheld 
Who  in  the  sunny  beams  did  glide. 

"  He  showed  me  lilies  for  my  hair, 

And  blushing  roses  for  my  brow ; 
He  led  me  through  his  gardens  fair 
Where  all  his  golden  pleasures  grow. 


William  Blake.  181 

"  With  sweet  May-dews  my  wings  were  wet, 

And  Phoebus  fired  my  vocal  rage  ; 
He  caught  me  in  his  silken  net, 
And  shut  me  in  his  golden  cage. 

"  He  loves  to  sit  and  hear  me  sing, 

Then,  laughing,  sports  and  plays  with  me  ; 
Then  stretches  out  my  golden  wing, 
And  mocks  my  loss  of  liberty." 

The  inspiration  is  so  like  that  of  music  itself 
that  no  name  can  be  given  the  first  eight  poems ; 
they  are  entitled  simply  "  Song."  None  but  a 
son  born  of  the  muses  could  thus  address 
them,  — 

"  Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow, 

Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 
The  chambers  of  the  Sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased ; 

"  Whether  in  heaven  ye  wander  fair, 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth, 
Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth ; 

"  Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove, 

Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove ; 

Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry  ; 

"  How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoyed  in  you  ! 
The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move, 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few !  " 

Such  are  the  verses  of  a  boy,  an  untrained  son 
of  a  London  hosier,  fallen  on  the  evil  days  of 


1 82  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Pope.  Let  us  not  spend  too  much  time  prying 
into  the  environment.  Nature  reaches  out  her 
hand  in  the  dry  time  and  in  the  barren  land, 
and  some  eternal  bloom  is  sure  to  respond ;  she 
calls  amid  the  din  and  jar  of  an  indifferent 
world,  and  at  its  hoarsest  hour  a  voice  answers 
in  tones  so  pure,  so  sweet,  that  they  never  leave 
the  hearts  of  men,  but  tremble  on,  echoes  out  of 
heaven,  from  generation  to  generation. 

"LOVE'S  SECRET. 

"  NEVER  seek  to  tell  thy  love, 

Love  that  never  told  can  be  ; 
For  the  gentle  wind  doth  move 
Silently,  invisibly. 

*- 1  told  my  love,  I  told  my  love, 

I  told  her  all  my  heart, 
Trembling,  cold,  in  ghastly  fears. 
Ah  !  She  did  depart  1 

"  Soon  after  she  was  gone  from  me, 

A  traveller  came  by 
Silently,  invisibly  : 

He  took  her  with  a  sigh/' 

Or,  to  go  back  to  the  period  of  boyhood,  — 
"  SONG. 

"  JOYS  upon  our  branches  sit, 
Chirping  loud  and  singing  sweet; 
Like  gentle  streams  beneath  our  feet, 
Innocence  and  virtue  meet. 


William  Blake.  183 

Thou  the  golden  fruit  dost  bear, 
I  am  clad  in  flowers  fair ; 
Thy  sweet  boughs  perfume  the  air, 
And  the  turtle  buildeth  there. 

There  she  sits  and  feeds  her  young, 
Sweet  I  hear  her  mournful  song ; 
And  thy  lovely  leaves  among 
There  is  Love  :  I  hear  his  tongue. 

Among  the  lyrics,  rippling  the  melodies  that 
neither  time  nor  toil  can  teach,  that  neither 
wisdom  nor  ambition  can  attain,  —  here  is  the 
haunt  of  the  real  Blake.  Here  is  the  poet; 
where  one  line  is  worth  all  his  riddles  of  politics, 
of  metaphysics,  and  what  not,  which  serve  no 
purpose  but  to  show  into  what  unavailing  vapor, 
into  what  damp  and  devouring  shadow,  the 
bright  child  of  song  may  wander.  A  thousand 
"Jerusalems"  and  "Urizens"  cannot  smother 
the  pure  star-flame ;  it  springs  triumphant  de 
spite  such  extinguishers  as  the  "  Book  of 
Ahania  "  and  the  "  Song  of  Los." 

"  Father,  O  Father!  What  do  we  here, 
In  this  land  of  unbelief  and  fear? 
The  land  of  dreams  is  better  far, 
Above  the  light  of  the  morning  star." 

While  this  mood  holds,  we  learn  anew  the  differ 
ence  between  the  stocks  and  stones  of  prose 
and  the  rejoicing  stars  of  song. 

Atmosphere    is   confessedly   one   of  the  sure 


184  That  Dome  in  Air. 

tests  of  the  poet,  and  the  secret  of  Blake's  power 
in  this  element  remained  inviolate  until  the  time 
of  Coleridge.  Be  it  sleeping  child  or  prowling 
beast,  the  magic  accents  fall,  and  we  are  envel 
oped  by  heavenly  innocence  or  by  horrors  of 
the  wild. 

A  CRADLE  SONG. 

SLEEP,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night ; 
Sleep,  sleep  ;  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

Oh  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep  ! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  light  shall  break. 

THE   TIGER. 

TIGER,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 


William  Blake.  185 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  that  fire  within  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dared  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dared  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder  and  what  art 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
When  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  formed  thy  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain, 
Knit  thy  strength  and  forged  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  What  dread  grasp 
Dared  thy  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  he  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

If  Cowper  first  counsels  a  loving  return  to 
Nature,  Blake  seconds  him  with  insight  not  found 
again  until  we  come  to  Wordsworth,  and  with 
passion  not  found  again  till  we  come  to  Burns. 
The  photography  of  Thomson,  the  classic  hand 
ling  of  Gray  and  Collins,  the  smooth,  sooth 
ing  rurality  of  Goldsmith,  the  close,  hard-lined 
matter  of  Crabbe,  —  none  of  these  exhibit  the 
enthusiasm  and  affection  that  in  Blake's  work  and 
in  Cowper's  stamp  these  two  blessed  madmen  as 
the  ancestors  of  Nature's  laureate,  the  poet  of 
Rydal ;  and  not  Wordsworth  himself  was  more  at 
home  with  the  simplest  beings  and  things,  the 
children,  the  lambs,  and  the  blossoms.  Does 


1 86  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Blake  sing  of  these,  the  notes  of  gentle  old  Ram 
say  are  not  more  native  and  sweet;  and  none 
of  all  the  singers  named  excel  him  in  evanescent 
touches,  in  airy  ignition,  mystic  flashes,  beyond 
the  reach  of  will  and  endeavor.  And  it  must  not 
be  forgotten  that  this  distinguishing  charm  of  the 
Elizabethans  was  recalled  amid  the  monotonous, 
choppy  hum  of  the  phrase-factory  still  running 
with  the  impetus  of  the  Restoration. 

In  the  light  of  modern  research  it  is  hardly 
safe  to  decide  that  Blake  did  not  see  things  invis 
ible  to  the  physical  eye.  If  he  was  a  man  when 
he  said  he  had  touched  the  sky  with  his  stick,  he 
was  a  child  when  he  saw,  on  the  tree,  angels  for 
apples.  He  had,  from  the  first,  what  we  term  a 
sixth  sense ;  and  while  at  times  he  pushed  this 
gift  too  hard,  not  always  is  he  to  be  taken  seri 
ously.  One  can  easily  imagine  a  twinkle  in  his 
great  eyes  as  he  gravely  asks  a  stiff,  unimagina 
tive  companion,  "By  the  way,  did  you  ever  see 
a  fairy  funeral?"  But  fact  or  fancy,  let  us  be 
thankful  for  so  pretty  stories ;  few  are  they  that 
can  tell  them  :  — 

"  I  was  walking  alone  in  my  garden  ;  there  was 
great  stillness  among  the  branches  and  flowers,  and 
more  than  common  sweetness  in  the  air;  I  heard  a 
low  and  pleasant  sound,  and  I  knew  not  whence  it 
came.  At  last  I  saw  the  broad  leaf  of  a  flower 
move,  and  underneath  I  saw  a  procession  of  crea- 


William  Blake.  187 

tures,  of  the  size  and  colour  of  green  and  grey  grass 
hoppers,  bearing  a  body  laid  out  on  a  rose  leaf, 
which  they  buried  with  songs,  and  then  disappeared. 
It  was  a  fairy  funeral." 

"  All  things,"  Blake  affirms,  "  exist  in  the 
human  imagination."  This  he  believed.  "It 
must  be  right,"  he  says ;  "  I  saw  it  so."  Whether 
or  not  he  hobnobbed  with  Moses  and  Homer 
is  of  little  importance  compared  with  the  fact 
expressed  in  his  own  noble  words,  "  I  possess 
my  visions  and  peace."  Madness  of  the  right 
sort  has  its  charms  for  the  stablest  critic.  "  There 
is  something  in  the  madness  of  the  man,"  says 
Wordsworth  of  Blake,  "  that  interests  one  more 
than  the  sanity  of  Byron  and  Walter  Scott."  Ay, 
would  the  world  were  full  of  so  brave,  so  joyous, 
so  beautiful  lunacy !  Heaven  send  many  such 
madmen ;  for  it  is  largely  through  them  that  we 
learn  to  scorn  the  dust  and  darkness  of  the 
ground.  Hark  !  it  is  the  call  of  this  free,  soaring 
son  of  the  morning  :  — 

"  O  Earth,  O  Earth,  return ! 

Arise  from  out  the  dewy  grass! 
Night  is  worn, 
And  the  morn 

Rises  from  the  slumbrous  mass." 


IX. 

WILLIAM    COWPER. 

[HE  loss  of  a  tender  mother  when  he  was 
but  six  years  old,  the  hard  experience 
of  a  boarding-school,  and  two  years' 
treatment  by  an  oculist  —  this  the  boy  Cowper 
endured  before  getting  to  Westminster  School. 
Nor  did  his  fortunes  rise  on  leaving  this  institu 
tion.  At  eighteen  he  went  to  live  with  a  solicitor, 
and  three  years  afterward  took  chambers ;  then 
came  disappointment  in  love,  and,  at  thirty-two, 
eighteen  months  in  a  madhouse.  The  subsequent 
life  with  the  Unwins  had  a  brighter  side  ;  but  this, 
too,  must  have  proved  dreary  to  other  than  a 
lone,  stricken,  helpless  soul  escaped  from  mad 
ness.  Poverty  meanwhile  pressed  in ;  and,  what 
was  worse,  the  person  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  John 
Newton,  ex-rake  and  slave-trader.  Next  and 
naturally  came  a  second  fit  of  madness,  which 
in  its  turn  gave  way  to  drawing,  carpentering, 
and  gardening,  —  to  any  employ  that  might  take 
a  frail,  frightened  hypochondriac  out  of  his  miser 
able  self. 


William  Cowper.  189 

Such,  in  outline,  was  Cowper's  preparation  for 
the  office  of  poet.  Something  good  should  come 
of  so  severe  schooling ;  and  something  good  did 
come,  though  hardly  at  the  first  attempt.  "  The 
Progress  of  Error,"  "Truth,"  "Expostulation," 
"Charity,"  "Hope,"  "Conversation,"  "Retire 
ment  "  —  these  efforts  were  initiatory,  as  were 
the  fifty  years  of  suffering ;  they  must  be  endured 
before  the  pent  fire  could  burst  through  the 
tough  strata  of  sorrow  and  theology.  Besides, 
a  new  influence,  a  smack  of  the  world  and  the 
flesh,  must  come,  —  Lady  Austen  must  appear, 
before  all  things  were  in  readiness  for  "  The 
Task." 

But  we  are  getting  to  "  The  Task  "  too  soon. 
Let  us  look  closer  into  the  singular  constitution 
and  the  forlorn  fortunes  of  this  gentleman  singer 
to  the  peasantry,  of  this  gyved  Newtonian  whom 
Nature  loved  to  free  for  a  season,  of  this  doomed 
madman  whom  the  hovering  muses  held  from 
destruction. 

"I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since  ;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infix'd 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  One  who  had  Himself 
Been  hurt  by  the  archers.     In  His  side  He  bore, 
And  in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal'd  and  bade  me  live. 


That  Dome  in  Air. 

Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene  ; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more." 

We  have  here  a  religious  recluse;  and  this 
on  mature  deliberation,  with  the  resolve  to  so 
remain.  But  why  a  recluse ;  because  nature  so 
intended?  There  is  no  evidence  to  support  an 
inborn  tendency  toward  isolation;  furthermore, 
there  is  no  evidence  to  prove  a  constitutional 
determination  for  the  apostleship  of  a  narrow, 
ascetic  theology.  It  is  not  always  remembered 
that  Cowper  was  as  much  a  son  of  Poesy  as 
he  was  of  his  dear  lost  mortal  mother;  or,  if 
this  be  remembered,  it  is  forgotten  how  deli 
cate,  how  weak  and  brittle,  are  certain  of  the 
poetic  fibres.  It  was  Cowper's  misfortune  to 
inherit  en  masse  the  frailties  of  his  high-born 
race,  and  to  fall  on  a  time  and  into  a  way  of  life 
so  uncongenial  as  to  be  fatal  to  his  peace  and 
all  but  to  his  existence.  It  is  hard  enough  for 
any  child  to  lose  a  fond  mother ;  for  this  child 
it  was  a  blight  of  his  very  being.  And  in  her 
stead  stood  immediately  the  boarding-school ! 

"  I  choose  to  conceal  a  particular  recital  of  the 
many  acts  of  barbarity  with  which  he  [a  ruffian 
school-fellow]  made  it  his  business  continually  to 
persecute  me.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  his 
savage  treatment  of  me  impressed  such  a  dread  of 


William  Cowper.  191 

his  figure  upon  my  mind,  that  I  well  remember  being 
afraid  to  lift  my  eyes  upon  him  higher  than  to  his 
knees,  and  that  I  knew  him  better  by  his  shoe-buckles 
than  by  any  other  part  of  his  dress." 

And  the  Temple  was  little  better  suited  to 
the  needs  of  the  sensitive,  dependent  being  whose 
chief  happiness,  in  a  life  of  threescore  years  and 
ten,  was  to  be  led,  like  a  child,  by  a  loving 
woman's  hand.  The  very  thought  of  an  office, 
the  prospect  of  which  would  be  transporting  to 
the  sons  of  poverty  in  general,  meant  to  him 
despondency,  torture.  Cowper  was  thirty-one 
years  old  when  trying  to  prepare  for  the  "  Clerk 
ship  of  the  Journals,"  but  he  is  the  same  trem 
bling  child  that  could  not  see  above  the  bully's 
shoe-buckles,  — 

"The  feelings  of  a  man  when  he  arrives  at  the 
place  of  execution  are,  probably,  much  as  mine 
were  every  time  I  set  my  foot  in  the  office,  which 
was  every  day  for  more  than  half  a  year  together." 

To  overlook  the  constitutional  delicacy,  the 
brittleness  of  the  poetic  fibre,  the  predisposi 
tion  to  heart-break,  and  attribute  the  abnormal 
condition  to  religion,  which  came  afterward  and 
was  accidental,  is  to  fall  into  error.  "  I  was  a 
stricken  deer  "  —  this  is  the  whole  story.  Hence 
we  have  the  recluse ;  and  as  for  the  religious  ele 
ment,  it  may  be  said,  first,  that  affliction,  that 


192  That  Dome  in  Air. 

madness,  finds  its  own  way  to  relief;  secondly, 
that  time  and  circumstances  set  the  present 
victim  on  the  Newtonian  course,  and  sustained 
him  in  it. 

At  fifty  years,  then,  we  find  Cowper  hurt  be 
yond  healing,  all  but  lost  in  doleful  theology ;  a 
refugee  from  the  world  of  which  he  knew  little, 
and  that  little  horrible  to  recall;  a  child  still, 
whose  only  hope  was  in  the  one  power  that  can 
minister  to  children,  —  woman's  affection.  Good 
soul  that "  Mary  "  was,  —  Cowper's  stay,  his  earthly 
salvation,  —  how  the  wound  must  have  bled  to 
reduce  him  to  the  submission  that  he  portrays  !  — 

"  As  to  amusements,  —  I  mean  what  the  world 
calls  such, — we  have  none.  The  place,  indeed, 
swarms  with  them ;  and  cards  and  dancing  are  the 
professed  business  of  almost  all  the  gentle  inhabi 
tants  of  Huntingdon.  We  refuse  to  take  part  in 
them,  or  to  be  accessories  to  this  way  of  murdering 
our  time,  and  by  so  doing  have  acquired  the  name 
of  Methodists. 

"  Having  told  you  how  we  do  not  spend  our  time,  I 
will  next  say  how  we  do.  We  breakfast  commonly 
between  eight  and  nine ;  till  eleven,  we  read  either 
the  Scripture,  or  the  sermons  of  some  faithful  preacher 
of  those  holy  mysteries  ;  at  eleven  we  attend  divine 
service,  which  is  performed  here  twice  every  day ; 
and  from  twelve  to  three  we  separate,  and  amuse 
ourselves  as  we  please.  During  that  interval,  I  either 
read  in  my  own  apartment,  or  walk,  or  ride,  or  work 
in  the  garden.  We  seldom  sit  an  hour  after  dinner, 


William  Cow  per.  193 

but,  if  the  weather  permits,  adjourn  to  the  garden, 
where,  with  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  son,  I  have  gener 
ally  the  pleasure  of  religious  conversation  till  tea- 
time.  If  it  rains,  or  is  too  windy  for  walking,  we 
either  converse  within  doors  or  sing  some  hymns  of 
Martin's  collection,  and  by  the  help  of  Mrs.  Unwin's 
harpsichord  make  up  a  tolerable  concert,  in  which 
our  hearts,  I  hope,  are  the  best  performers.  After 
tea  we  sally  forth  to  walk  in  good  earnest.  Mrs. 
Unwin  is  a  good  walker,  and  we  have  generally 
travelled  about  four  miles  before  we  see  home  again. 
When  the  days  are  short,  we  make  this  excursion  in 
the  former  part  of  the  day,  between  church-time  and 
dinner.  At  night  we  read  and  converse  as  before 
till  supper,  and  commonly  finish  the  evening  either 
with  hymns  or  a  sermon,  and  last  of  all,  the  family 
are  called  to  prayers.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  such 
a  life  as  this  is  consistent  with  the  utmost  cheerful 
ness  ;  accordingly,  we  are  all  happy,  and  dwell 
together  in  unity  as  brethren." 

This  is  pathetic  indeed ;  but  dwell  for  a  mo 
ment  on  that  most  misplaced  man  at  whose  nod 
Cowper's  spirits  rose  and  sank  like  the  willow  spray 
before  a  northeaster.  The  Rev.  Mr.  John  New 
ton  was,  no  doubt,  of  good  battering-ram  service 
against  the  coarse  immorality,  the  rough-and- 
tumble  profligacy  of  his  time  ;  but  think  of  such 
an  engine  whanging  against  a  statuette  of  spun 
glass,  imagine  such  a  master  for  Cowper  !  It  is 
a  wonder  that  the  brittle  victim  did  not  break, 
shatter  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Were  the  author 


194  That  Dome  in  Air. 

of  "  The  World  before  the  Flood  "  addressing  an 
audience  of  that  period,  he  might  be  pardoned 
one  passage  in  his  preface  to  the  Olney  Hymns : 

"To  Newton  the  world  owes  Cowper,  as  Cowper 
appears  to  the  world.  It  is  not  presumed  that  had 
the  latter  never  fallen  in  with  the  former,  he  might 
not  have  broken  out  from  inglorious  obscurity,  in  all 
the  power  of  irrepressible  genius,  —  but  whatever 
other,  or  even  higher,  achievements  he  might  have 
wrought,  under  different  circumstances,  those  by 
which  he  will  be  forever  known  and  honored  and 
endeared,  were  all  (directly  or  indirectly)  called  from 
his  slumbering  mind  (oppressed  by  a  burden  more 
awful  than  Etna,  and  all  its  fires,  on  the  breast  of  the 
giant  Enceladus),  by  the  awakening  voice,  the  ani 
mating  example,  and  the  cordial  companionship  of 
Newton." 

At  this  safe  distance,  it  may  not  be  rash  to 
try  a  few  strains  of  the  "  awakening  voice,"  — 

"Such  was  the  wicked  murderer  Cain, 

And  such  by  nature  still  are  we, 
Until  by  grace  we  're  born  again, 
Malicious,  blind,  and  proud  as  he. 

"  I  would,  but  cannot  sing, 

Guilt  has  untuned  my  voice, 
The  serpent's  sin-envenom'd  sting 
Has  poison'd  all  my  joys." 

Such  awakening,  animating  cordiality  as  this 
might  serve  well  the  hardened  wretches  of  Olney 


William  Cowper.  195 

a  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago ;  but  it  was  spe 
cially  directed  toward  the  softest  of  wretches,  — 
our  poor  ruined  poet,  too  innocent  already. 
Cheering  companion  indeed  !  Cowper  could  not 
write  him  a  letter  that  was  not  black  as  a  thun 
der-cloud;  he  must  shrink  from  disclosing  to 
him  the  awful  fact  that  he  had  been  penning 
certain  harmless  lines  to  a  sofa,  a  dozen  of 
which  are  worth  many  dozens  of  those  inspired  by 
the  "  animating  example  "  and  "  cordial  compan 
ionship." 

The  time  is  at  last  ripe  for  change,  the  pent 
poetry  is  about  to  burst  through.  The  chief  in 
centive  to  song  may  be  disclosed  in  Cowper's 
own  happy  language  :  — 

"  Now  therefore  for  the  interruptions  at  which  I 
hinted.  There  came  a  lady  into  this  country,  by 
name  and  title  Lady  Austen,  the  widow  of  the  late 
Sir  Robert  Austen.  At  first  she  lived  with  her  sis 
ter,  about  a  mile  from  Olney,  but  in  a  few  weeks 
took  lodgings  at  the  vicarage  here.  Between  the 
vicarage  and  the  back  of  our  house  are  interposed 
our  garden,  an  orchard,  and  the  garden  belonging  to 
the  vicarage.  She  had  lived  much  in  France,  was 
very  sensible,  and  had  infinite  vivacity.  She  took  a 
great  liking  to  us,  and  we  to  her.  She  had  been 
used  to  a  great  deal  of  company,  and  we,  fearing 
that  she  would  find  such  a  transition  into  silent  re 
tirement  irksome,  contrived  to  give  her  our  agreeable 
company  often.  Becoming  continually  more  and 


196  That  Dome  in  Air. 

more  intimate,  a  practice  obtained  at  length  of  our 
dining  with  each  other  alternately  every  day,  Sundays 
excepted.  In  order  to  facilitate  our  communication, 
we  made  doors  in  the  two  garden-walls  abovesaid, 
by  which  means  we  considerably  shortened  the  way 
from  one  house  to  the  other,  and  could  meet  when 
we  pleased  without  entering  the  town  at  all,  —  a  meas 
ure  the  rather  expedient,  because  in  winter  the  town 
is  abominably  dirty,  and  she  kept  no  carriage.  On 
her  first  settlement  in  our  neighborhood,  I  made  it 
my  particular  business  (for  at  that  time  I  was  not 
employed  in  writing,  having  published  my  first 
volume,  and  not  begun  my  second)  to  pay  my 
devoirs  to  her  ladyship  every  morning  at  eleven. 
Customs  very  soon  became  laws." 

"  Sensible  "  indeed  was  "  Sister  Anne,"  and, 
whatever  the  world  before  the  flood  may  think, 
we  moderns  must  style  her  the  "  animating " 
spirit ;  for  to  her  we  owe  not  only  "  The  Task," 
but  the  lines  "  On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George," 
not  to  speak  of  "  The  Diverting  History  of  John 
Gilpin." 

Though  he  failed  to  assert  himself  for  a  round 
half-century,  Cowper  was  a  born  poet.  "  When 
I  can  find  no  other  occupation,"  he  says,  "  I 
think ;  and  when  I  think,  I  am  very  apt  to  think 
in  rhyme."  What  lines  may  be  cited  as  exam 
ples  of  Cowper's  thought  in  numbers  ?  It  were 
safer  to  look  for  them  the  farthest  possible  from 
the  Newtonian  Methodism,  in  the  tranquil  pres- 


William  Cowper.  197 

ence  of  Nature  and  in  those  simple  homely  scenes 
dear  to  a  warm,  home-loving  heart.  From  this 
source  were  drawn  the  choicer  strains  of  "  The 
Task."  If  the  spread  of  "rural  ease"  is  some 
what  lavish,  there  is  no  danger  that  the  rushing 
world  will  partake  too  freely ;  nor  is  it  to  be 
feared  that  the  protuberant  "  piety  and  virtue  " 
will  do  any  more  harm  than  to  interfere  now 
and  then,  as  in  the  case  of  Wordsworth,  with  the 
requirements  of  art. 

"Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.     Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit,  while  they  fill  the  mind  ; 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighboring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 


198  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Thus  oft  reclined  at  ease,  I  lose  an  hour 
At  evening,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast 
That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 
The  recollected  powers,  and  snapping  short 
The  glassy  threads  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 
Her  brittle  toys,  restores  me  to  myself. 
How  calm  is  my  recess !  and  how  the  frost 
Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 
The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy'd  within  !  " 

Direct,  easeful,  chaste  —  Covvper's  best  work 
is  all  this,  and  more ;  the  superstructure  is  raised 
on  the  sound  foundation  of  good  judgment.  Be 
yond  the  qualifications,  excellent  sense,  sponta 
neity,  and  taste,  Cowper's  work  reveals  both 
pathos  and  humor.  Could  we  go  on,  and  add 
the  supreme  gift,  imagination,  we  should  have  a 
poet  of  the  first  order.  But  it  will  not  do  to 
claim  for  Cowper  great  imaginative  power;  nor 
can  we  credit  him  with  the  certainty,  the  conti 
nuity,  of  inspiration  that  stamps  a  master  of  the 
guild.  We  look  to  him  in  vain  for  the  sublime  ; 
furthermore,  we  find  that  if  he  can  move  lightly 
and  gracefully  on  levels  not  the  highest,  he  can 
also  plod  there,  and  that  right  heavily.  The 
tread  gets  heavy,  the  hand  gets  heavy ;  the  fin 
gers  are  naturally  nimble,  but  suddenly  on  go 
the  Methodist  mittens,  and  we  are  in  for  a  pull 
of  theologic  fumbling.  On  his  own  statement 
Cowper  had  a  poor  memory,  and  one  of  the 
easiest  things  for  him  to  forget  was  that  polemics 


William  Cowper.  199 

is  not  poetry.  He  was  prone,  moreover,  to  pon 
derosity;  he  could  attack  a  sore  toe  with  as 
much  gravity  as  if  storming  the  towers  of  Ilium  : 

"  Oh,  may  I  live  exempted  (while  I  live 
Guiltless  of  pampered  appetite  obscene) 
From  pangs  arthritic,  that  infest  the  toe 
Of  libertine  excess!" 

Again,  it  must  be  remembered  that,  with  all 
his  sincerity,  and  regard  for  the  poet's  office, 
Cowper  was  writing  against  time.  A  poet  may 
tug  away  indefinitely  at  lettuces  and  cauliflowers 
for  his  own  private  delectation ;  but,  unless  it 
be  in  a  match  against  time,  he  will  not  com 
pel  the  muse  to  toil  with  him  for  the  space  of 
ninety-eight  lines  on  that  "  prickly  and  green- 
coated  gourd  "  vulgarly  known  as  the  cucumber. 
Unquestionably,  Cowper  wrote  against  time  ;  but 
let  it  not  be  understood  that  he  held  the  office  of 
poet  in  light  esteem.  On  the  contrary,  he  held 
it  in  high  regard,  and  gave  to  his  art  patient,  in 
telligent  study.  What  he  says  of  Thomson's 
verse  and  of  his  own,  what  he  says  of  Pope's 
verse,  especially  of  his  translation  of  Homer,  what 
he  says  of  poetry  in  general,  goes  straight  to  the 
mark.  If  he  could  not  hold  up  to  his  ideal, 
neither  could  Wordsworth,  neither  could  other 
poets  greater  than  Wordsworth.  Whatever  be 
his  performance,  there  is  no  question  as  to  his 
ideal.  "  Perspicuity,"  he  says,  "is  more  than 


2OO  That  Dome  in  Air. 

half  the  battle.  A  meaning  that  does  not  stare 
you  in  the  face  is  as  bad  as  no  meaning."  Pithy 
observations  of  this  sort  are  common  with  him. 

Cowper  was  deficient  in  imagination,  in  the 
staying  power;  he  lacked  passion,  he  confused 
rhyme  with  religion,  and  stuck  the  rough  stalk 
of  didacticism  in  the  place  of  the  light  leaves 
and  the  beauteous,  odorous  blossoms  of  song; 
he  was  narrow  and  priest-ridden;  his  heart 
—  a  pardonable  failing  —  could  beat  down  his 
judgment ;  and  lastly,  poor  soul !  he  was  a  vic 
tim  of  even  a  worse  tyrant  than  the  curate  of 
Olney, — a  "troublesome  stomach";  and  yet, 
all  this  admitted,  largely  on  him  rests  the  burden 
of  English  song  for  his  century.  He  touched  the 
graver  social  questions  of  his  time,  yes,  the  great 
problems  of  the  race,  with  a  new  and  quickening 
hand  which  pointed  the  more  highly  inspired  of 
his  followers  the  way  to  glory;  and  he  is  the 
leader  on  the  loving  return  to  Nature,  to  the 
wholesome  gospel  of  the  ground.  Unstable, 
helpless,  in  certain  particulars,  when  it  comes  to 
accuracy  of  sight,  to  purity  of  report,  he  is  inde 
pendent,  stanch ;  here,  indeed,  he  stands  quite 
by  himself.  He  read  with  more  or  less  attention 
the  gifted  prose  writers  that  ushered  in  his  era ; 
read  his  contemporaries  illustrious  in  fiction ; 
read  the  historians  Robertson  and  Gibbon,  and 
the  half-dozen  poets  who  sang  with  him  and  still 


William  Cowper.  201 

make  themselves  heard  while  their  fellows  have 
dropped  into  silence,  —  he  read  these  men,  but 
owed  them  little.  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and 
Rousseau  —  we  can  hardly  add  a  fourth  to  those 
exercising  a  direct  influence  on  the  writings  of 
this  poet.  Cowper  set  down  only  his  own ;  he 
took  his  matter  first-hand,  nor  was  he  an  imitator 
in  point  of  style. 

"  My  descriptions,"  he  says,  "  are  all  from  nature  : 
not  one  of  them  second-hand.  My  delineations  of 
the  heart  are  from  my  own  experience  :  not  one  of 
them  borrowed  from  books,  or  in  the  least  degree 
conjectural.  In  my  numbers,  which  I  have  varied 
as  much  as  I  could  (for  blank  verse  without  variety 
of  numbers  is  no  better  than  bladder  and  string), 
I  have  imitated  nobody,  though  sometimes  perhaps 
there  may  be  an  apparent  resemblance  ;  because  at 
the  same  time  that  I  would  not  imitate,  I  have  not 
affectedly  differed." 

His  blank  verse,  at  its  best,  is  free  and  lucid  ; 
he  was  no  novice  at  the  lyric ;  and  his  Pegasus 
now  and  then  pricked  his  ears  at  a  mild  "  crack 
of  the  satiric  thong." 

Among  the  shorter  pieces,  "  On  the  Loss  of 
the  Royal  George,"  "Boadicea,"  "The  Shrub 
bery,"  not  to  go  further,  would  add  to  the  laurels 
of  a  poet  of  the  first  order  :  — 

"Oh,  happy  shades  —  to  me  unblest ! 
Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me  ! 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 
And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree ! 


2O2  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pine, 
Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 
Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine, 
And  please,  if  anything  could  please. 

"  The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 

This  moss-grown  alley,  musing  slow ; 
They  seek,  like  me,  the  secret  shade, 
But  not,  like  me,  to  nourish  woe  ! 

"  Me  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste, 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam ; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 
And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come." 

Here  is  perfect  finish,  without  a  suggestion  of 
the  sleekness  of  much  of  Goldsmith's  work,  with 
out  a  trace  of  the  labor  that  shows  equally  with 
the  beauty  in  the  verses  of  Gray. 

And  what  poet  could  ask  for  more  propitious 
moods  than  those  that  inspired  such  passages  as 
the  opening  of  "The  Pineapple  and  the  Bee," 
and  such  a  poem  as  "The  Needless  Alarm"? 

"  The  pineapples,  in  triple  row, 
Were  basking  hot,  and  all  in  blow  ; 
A  bee  of  most  discerning  taste 
Perceived  the  fragrance  as  he  pass'd ; 
On  eager  wing  the  spoiler  came, 
And  searched  for  crannies  in  the  frame, 
Urged  his  attempt  on  every  side, 
To  every  pane  his  trunk  applied ; 
But  still  in  vain,  the  frame  was  tight, 
And  only  pervious  to  the  light : 
Thus  having  wasted  half  the  day, 
He  trimm'd  his  flight  another  way." 


William  Cowper*  203 

The  appetite  sharpened  with  the  taste  of  this, 
one  cannot  help  adding  an  extract  from  "  The 
Needless  Alarm,"  a  kindred  composition  where 
no  "Cynthio,"  or  other  ogling  ugliness,  brushes 
in  to  frighten  off  the  muse,  — 

"  Sheep  grazed  the  field  ;  some  with  soft  bosom  press'd 
The  herb  as  soft,  while  nibbling  stray'd  the  rest; 
Nor  noise  was  heard  but  of  the  hasty  brook, 
Struggling,  detain'd  in  many  a  petty  nook. 
All  seem'd  so  peaceful,  that,  from  them  convey'd, 
To  me  their  peace  by  kind  contagion  spread. 

"  But  when  the  huntsman,  with  distended  cheek, 
'Gan  make  his  instrument  of  music  speak, 
And  from  within  the  wood  that  crash  was  heard, 
Though  not  a  hound  from  whom  it  burst  appear'd, 
The  sheep  recumbent  and  the  sheep  that  grazed, 
All  huddling  into  phalanx,  stood  and  gazed, 
Admiring,  terrified,  the  novel  strain, 

Then  coursed  the  field  around,  and  coursed  it  round  again ; 
But  recollecting,  with  a  sudden  thought, 
That  flight  in  circles  urged  advanced  them  nought. 
They  gather'd  close  around  the  old  pit's  brink, 
And  thought  again  —  but  knew  not  what  to  think." 

These  are  choice  specimens  of  art,  worthy  of 
the  poet  the  first  to  revive  the  happy  report  of 
Nature  that  dropped  into  silence  with  the  magic 
numbers  of  Milton.  The  life  of  Nature  and  the 
glow  of  the  home  hearth  were  so  faithfully  re 
flected  from  his  soul  that  they  shine  to-day,  and 
will  shine  on  as  long  as  men  remember  the  few 
abiding  elements  of  strength  and  happiness. 


2O4  That  Dome  in  Air. 

This  child  of  sorrow  was  also  the  child  of  song, 
of  jealous,  unforgetful  Poesy  ;  his  strains  are  min 
gled  with  the  music  of  the  years. 

We  are  wont  to  speak  of  Cowper  as  a  poet 
only,  and  we  accept  and  love  him  with  all  his 
imperfections  on  his  head  ;  but  the  letters  —  who 
has  surpassed  them,  who  has  equalled  them? 
"  We  are  now  quiet  as  dormice  in  a  hollow  tree  "  ; 
"  Harrold,  who  is  subtle  as  a  dozen  foxes " ; 
"  Many  an  ugly  bundle  can  find  a  husband  in  such 
a  place  as  Olney,  while  Venus  herself  would  shine 
there  unnoticed  ;  "  "  An  almost  general  cessation 
of  egg-laying  among  the  hens  has  made  it  im 
possible  for  Mrs.  Unwin  to  enterprise  a  cake," 
—  like  felicitous  expressions  recur  to  us,  parts 
of  an  artistic  whole,  the  framework  and  details 
of  which  are  at  the  very  top  of  literary  cun 
ning.  Southey  is  right :  Cowper  is  the  cham 
pion  correspondent. 

TO   LADY   HESKETH. 

OLNEY,  Feb.  9,  1786. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,  —  ...  And  now,  my  dear, 
let  me  tell  you  once  more,  that  your  kindness  in 
promising  us  a  visit  has  charmed  us  both.  I  shall 
see  you  again.  I  shall  hear  your  voice.  We  shall 
take  walks  together.  I  will  show  you  my  pros 
pects,  the  hovel,  the  alcove,  the  Ouse,  and  its 
banks,  everything  that  I  have  described.  I  antici- 


William  Cowper.  205 

pate  the  pleasure  of  those  days  not  very  far  dis 
tant,  and  feel  a  part  of  it  at  this  moment.  Talk 
not  of  an  inn  !  Mention  it  not  for  your  life !  We 
have  never  had  so  many  visitors  but  we  could  easily 
accommodate  them  all  ;  though  we  have  received 
Unwin,  and  his  wife,  and  his  sister,  and  his  son,  all 
at  once.  My  dear,  I  will  not  let  you  come  till  the 
end  of  May,  or  beginning  of  June,  because  before 
that  time  my  greenhouse  will  not  be  ready  to  receive 
us,  and  it  is  the  only  pleasant  room  belonging  to  us. 
When  the  plants  go  out,  we  go  in.  I  line  it  with 
mats,  and  spread  the  floor  with  mats ;  and  there  you 
shall  sit  with  a  bed  of  mignonette  at  your  side,  and 
a  hedge  of  honeysuckles,  roses,  and  jasmine  ;  and  I 
will  make  you  a  bouquet  of  myrtle  every  day.  Sooner 
than  the  time  I  mention  the  country  will  not  be  in 
complete  beauty.  And  I  will  tell  you  what  you  shall 
find  at  your  first  entrance.  Imprimis,  as  soon  as  you 
have  entered  the  vestibule,  if  you  cast  a  look  on 
either  side  of  you,  you  shall  see  on  the  right  hand 
a  box  of  my  making.  It  is  the  box  in  which  have 
been  lodged  all  my  hares,  and  in  which  lodges  Puss 
at  present;  but  he,  poor  fellow,  is  worn  out  with 
age,  and  promises  to  die  before  you  can  see  him. 
On  the  right  hand  stands  a  cupboard,  the  work  of 
the  same  author;  it  was  once  a  dove-cage,  but  I 
transformed  it.  Opposite  »to  you  stands  a  table, 
which  I  also  made ;  but  a  merciless  servant  having 
scrubbed  it  until  it  became  paralytic,  it  serves  no 
purpose  now  but  of  ornament ;  and  all  my  clean 
shoes  stand  under  it.  On  the  left  hand,  at  the 
further  end  of  this  superb  vestibule,  you  will  find  the 
door  of  the  parlour,  into  which  I  will  conduct  you, 


206  That  Dome  in  Air. 

and  where  I  will  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Unwin,  unless 
we  should  meet  her  before,  and  where  we  will  be  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long.  .  .  . 

Adieu!  my  dearest,  dearest  cousin. 

W.  C. 


X. 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

]N  one  of  the  best  editions  of  the  Eng 
lish  Poets  we  are  informed  that  "  Words 
worth's  poetry  and  his  idea  of  the  office 
of  poetry  must  be  traced  to  the  Revolution." 
The  tracings,  —  the  domicile,  the  dates,  and 
other  kindred  matters,  take  more  than  their  share 
of  the  critic's  attention  nowadays,  putting  into 
the  background  the  two  important  points,  what 
does  the  poet  say,  and  how  does  he  say  it? 
Like  Cowper,  Wordsworth  was  orphaned  at  a 
tender  age  ;  Dorothy  is  ministering  angel  in  place 
of  Mary,  and  Coleridge  —  heaven  be  praised 
therefor  —  is  counsellor  in  the  place  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Newton  ;  it  is  now  stamp-distributing  instead 
of  hutch- building,  and  again  we  have  a  long 
stretch  of  years  with  little  reading  and  much 
Nature  and  solitude.  It  is  very  well  to  know 
this ;  but,  with  it  and  more  of  the  sort,  we  are  yet 
far  from  knowing  the  two  poets.  Better  bio 
graphical  matter  will  be  found  by  questioning  the 
poets  themselves.  Cowper  answers,  — 


208  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades." 

Wordsworth  responds,  in  the  opening  lines  of 
the  introduction  to  "The  Prelude,"  — 

"  O  there  is  blessing  in  this  gentle  breeze, 
A  visitant  that  while  it  fans  my  cheek 
Doth  seem  half-conscious  of  the  joy  it  brings 
From  the  green  fields,  and  from  yon  azure  sky. 
Whate'er  its  mission,  the  soft  breeze  can  come 
To  none  more  grateful  than  to  me ;  escaped 
From  the  vast  city,  where  I  long  had  pined 
A  discontented  sojourner  :  now  free, 
Free  as  a  bird  to  settle  where  I  will. 
What  dwelling  shall  receive  me  ?  in  what  vale 
Shall  be  my  harbour  ?  underneath  what  grove 
Shall  I  take  up  my  home  ?  and  what  clear  stream 
Shall  with  its  murmur  lull  me  into  rest  ? 
The  earth  is  all  before  me.     With  a  heart 
Joyous,  nor  scared  at  its  own  liberty, 
I  look  about ;  and  should  the  chosen  guide 
Be  nothing  better  than  a  wandering  cloud, 
I  cannot  miss  my  way.     I  breathe  again  ! 
Trances  of  thought  and  mountings  of  the  mind 
Come  fast  upon  me :  it  is  shaken  off, 
That  burthen  of  my  own  unnatural  self, 
The  heavy  weight  of  many  a  weary  day 
Not  mine,  and  such  as  were  not  made  for  me. 
Long  months  of  peace  (if  such  bold  word  accord 
With  any  promises  of  human  life), 
Long  months  of  ease  and  undisturbed  delight 
Are  mine  in  prospect ;  whither  shall  I  turn, 
By  road  or  pathway,  or  through  trackless  field, 
Up  hill  or  down,  or  shall  some  floating  thing 
Upon  the  river  point  me  out  my  course  ? " 


William   Wordsworth.  209 

If  these  two  very  different  recluses  do  not 
stand  before  us  now,  distinctly  outlined,  the  com 
mentators  must  toil  on  in  vain. 

"  With  a  heart 
Joyous,  nor  scared  at  its  own  liberty, 

Trances  of  thought  and  mountings  of  the  mind,"  — 

these  lines  stamp  the  new  man.  Strength,  joy, 
imagination  ;  here  is  a  trinity  of  power  not  found 
in  Cowper.  Our  solitaries  are  to  devote  them 
selves  largely  to  Nature;  what  are  to  be  their 
methods?  We  are  prepared  for  dissimilarity, 
and  we  shall  find  it.  Take  the  familiar  echoes 
of  their  voices  at  the  fall  of  evening :  -— 

"  Come,  evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace, 
Return,  sweet  evening,  and  continue  long  ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west, 
With  matron  step  slow  moving,  while  the  night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train;  one  hand  employ'd 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day ; 
Not  sumptuously  adorn'd,  nor  needing  aid, 
Like  homely-featured  night,  of  clustering  gems  ; 
A  star  or  two  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow 
Suffices  thee ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come,  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so," 


2io  That  Dome  in  Air. 

Thus  Cowper ;  and  now  to  Wordsworth  :  — 

"It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea. 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  everlastingly." 

The  class  of  composition  does  not  matter; 
blank  verse  or  sonnet,  it  is  all  one  to  our  imme 
diate  purpose.  In  the  first  quotation,  a  meek 
votary  draws  a  lovely  picture ;  in  the  second,  an 
inspired  reporter  gives  an  unsurpassed  presenta 
tion  of  evening  before  reaching  the  end  of  the 
third  line,  and  at  the  sixth  line  introduces  the 
informing  Presence  that  lies  at  the  heart  of  his 
might,  employing  in  the  introduction  the  com 
manding  cadence  that  bespeaks  the  voice  for  all 
time.  If,  as  Arnold  says,  Wordsworth  is  not  an 
exponent  of  the  grand  style,  he  abounds  in  such 
passages  as  these,  the  peculiar  power  of  which  is 
not  more  than  matched  by  Milton  himself.  Pro 
vided  these  utterances  are  characteristic  respec 
tively  of  the  voices  of  Olney  and  Rydal,  the 
sympathetic  student  must  now  have  a  clew  to 
their  open  secrets.  These  test  accents  well  in 
mind,  one  is  ready  for  Arnold's  essay,  and  his 
selections  from  Wordsworth  ;  which,  in  turn,  being 
mastered,  there  is  hope  of  profit  from  the  poet's 


William    Wordsworth.  21 1 

complete  works  chronologically  arranged  and  pre 
sented  by  the  steady  hand  of  Mr.  John  Morley. 

In  one  of  Cowper's  spirited  passages,  beginning 
"Nor  rural  sights  alone,"  we  see  what  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  Nature  do  for  him;  they  "restore 
the  tone,"  they  "  exhilarate  the  spirit."  With 
Wordsworth  the  influence  rises  to  a  continuous 
benediction,  to  a  perpetual  revelation  of  the 
myriad  phenomena  of  life,  of  Nature  not  only  but 
of  the  soul,  one  with  Nature  in  a  union  mystic 
and  indissoluble  :  — 

"  Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou  Soul,  that  art  the  Eternity  of  thought! 
And  giv'st  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion  1  not  in  vain, 
By  day  or  starlight,  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  them  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul; 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  Man, 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 
With  life  and  nature  ;  purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 
Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognize 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart." 

If  we  wish  to  learn  how  Wordsworth  came 
to  break  with  the  conventionalities,  in  litera 
ture,  politics,  and  religion;  to  hold  steady  on 
his  course  while  his  contemporaries,  Byron, 
Shelley,  Keats,  reeled  to  and  fro;  to  push  de 
lusion  aside,  and  stake  all  on  a  few  eternal 


212  TJiat  Dome  in  Air. 

principles ;  how  he  came,  in  a  word,  to  see 
and  to  meet  the  new  requirements  of  modern 
life  and  modern  art,  —  to  return  to  Nature,  to 
champion  free  thought  and  deed,  to  reassert 
the  native  strength  and  splendor  of  man,  —  if  we 
wish  to  learn  all  this,  we  must  not  rest  content 
with  a  date,  we  must  go  back  of  the  convenient 
1793.  The  American  and  the  French  Revo 
lutions  plus  the  rupture  of  all  Europe  —  these, 
combined,  are  not  to  be  credited  with  Words 
worth's  poetry.  In  the  very  first  verses,  written 
at  fourteen  years  of  age,  we  discover  the  Words 
worth  to  come  :  — 

"  The  Power  of  Education  seemed  to  rise; 
Not  she  whose  rigid  precepts  trained  the  boy 
Dead  to  the  sense  of  every  finer  joy, 

But  she  who  trains  the  generous  British  youth 
In  the  bright  paths  of  fair  majestic  Truth. 

From  thence  to  search  the  mystic  cause  of  things 
And  follow  Nature  to  her  secret  springs; 
Nor  less  to  guide  the  fluctuating  youth, 
Firm  in  the  sacred  paths  of  moral  truth, 
To  regulate  the  mind's  disordered  frame, 
And  quench  the  passions  kindling  into  flame; 
The  glimmering  fires  of  Virtue  to  enlarge, 
And  purge  from  Vice's  dross  my  tender  charge." 

Here  is  Wordsworth,  pretty  green,  and  fresh 
from  Pope  withal,  but  the  very  Wordsworth,  whom 


William    Wordsworth.  213 

revolutions  may  quicken  and  strengthen,  —  this 
and  no  more.  Poesy,  indifferent  to  the  chance 
of  empire,  took  this  child  to  her  heart,  and  held 
him  there. 

The  boy  Wordsworth  was  conscious  of  the 
honor  conferred ;  he  never  forgot  it,  as  his  devo 
tion  and  egotism  abundantly  testify.  He  was  a 
"  dedicated  spirit,"  an  account  of  whom  was 
worth  hugging  fifty  years,  to  be  given  by  his 
own  hand  as  a  last  bequest  to  the  world.  If 
this  boy,  grown  to  manhood,  sojourned  in  learned 
Germany,  it  was  to  continue  the  work  begun 
in  the  English  hills,  —  to  write  poetry ;  and 
if  chance  brought  him  a  distinguished  visitor 
at  home  or  abroad,  he  proceeded  to  entertain 
him  by  reciting  some  of  his  verses.  The 
egotism  of  Wordsworth  is,  after  all,  loyalty  to 
his  lineage,  faithfulness  to  the  exalted  duties  of 
his  priesthood.  If  he  depreciated  other  poets, 
it  was  because,  as  he  saw  it,  they  were  not  of 
the  anointed ;  they  were  prone  to  profane 
the  sacred  office.  This  attitude,  while  it  indi 
cates  weakness,  limitation,  indicates  also  strength 
of  the  purest  kind,  —  the  strength  of  sincerity, 
total  absorption,  consecration. 

Wordsworth's  notion  of  the  poet's  office  is 
the  old  notion,  grievously  besieged,  but  safe  for 
ever,  —  the  old  notion  that  the  great  poet's  office 
is  to  teach  us  "  how  to  live  well."  So  does  he 


\ 


214  That  Dome  in  Air. 

establish  his  kinship  with  the  great  sons  of  song 
from  time  immemorial,  and  rebuke  once  more  the 
perverse  ingenuity  untiringly  exercised  to  robe  the 
poet  solely  as  a  priest  of  pleasure.  "  To  console 
the  afflicted;  to  add  sunshine  to  daylight  by 
making  the  happy  happier ;  to  teach  the  young 
and  the  gracious  of  every  age  to  see,  to  think,  and 
feel,  and  therefore  to  become  more  actively  and 
sincerely  virtuous,"  —  such  was  Wordsworth's  no 
tion  of  his  office. 

In  Wordsworth  we  have  sincerity,  simplicity, 
health,  strength,  the  accent  of  the  masters, 
imagination,  and  inspiration ;  enough  surely  to 
place  him  "  on  a  line  just  short  of  the  greatest 
of  all  time."  Why  just  short  of  the  greatest? 
Because  the  flower-field  is,  at  times,  all  stalks, 
and  in  the  place  of  melody  and  harmony  there 
is  creaking  of  cart-wheels.  Humor  is  absent ; 
taste  is  often  otherwhere,  —  taste  which  never 
quits  the  fair  eternal  field.  The  austerity  of 
Art!  The  rarest  gifts  must  bend  to  her; 
the  highest  resolves,  the  warrior  wills  must  bow 
down  to  her.  Wordsworth  was  not  always  an 
artist,  and  he  falls  just  short  of  the  greatest. 
"  Surely  he  was  not  an  artist  in  the  strictest 
sense  of  the  word,"  says  Lowell,  "  neither  was 
Isaiah ;  but  he  had  a  rarer  gift,  the  capability  of 
being  greatly  inspired."  He  was,  like  our 
Emerson,  a  seer,  a  rarer  being  than  the  artist, 


William    Wordsworth.  215 

but  a  being  with  whom  the  artist  must  be  united 
if  the  song  is  to  reach  the  height  of  the  greatest 
of  all  time.  Any  one  of  some  twenty  or  thirty 
of  the  short  poems,  however,  proclaims  Words 
worth  a  thorough  artist  in  his  happier  moments ; 
and  thankful  indeed  may  we  be  for  such  mo 
ments  as  made  possible  "  The  Solitary  Reaper  " 
or  the  choicer  of  the  sonnets. 

Regarding  the  ode,  "  Intimations  of  Immor 
tality,"  Arnold  remarks,  "  But  to  say  that  uni 
versally  this  instinct  [of  delight  in  Nature]  is 
mighty  in  childhood,  and  tends  to  die  away  after 
wards,  is  to  say  what  is  extremely  doubtful." 
The  objectors  to  the  truth  of  this  experience 
speak  as  if  Wordsworth  dealt  with  infancy  only, 
whereas  he  passes  on  to  youth ;  and  surely  the 
fading  of  the  splendors  of  youth  is  no  fancy. 

Again,  Mr.  Morley  finds  the  line, 

"  Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting," 

"nonsense."  Mr.  Morley  can  hardly  have 
weighed  Wordsworth's  own  explanation  of  the 
line ;  and  one  prefers  to  think  that  he  has  over 
looked  a  certain  passage  in  Coleridge. 

"  But  the  Ode,"  says  Coleridge,  "  was  intended 
for  such  readers  only  as  had  been  accustomed 
to  watch  the  flux  and  reflux  of  their  utmost 
nature,  to  venture  at  times  into  the  twilight 
realms  of  consciousness,  and  to  feel  a  -deep 


216  That  Dome  in  Air. 

interest  in  modes  of  inmost  being,  to  which  they 
know  that  the  attributes  of  time  and  space  are 
inapplicable  and  alien,  but  which  cannot  be  con 
veyed,  save  in  symbols  of  time  and  space.  For 
such  readers  the  sense  is  sufficiently  plain." 

In  the  face  of  the  "  something  declamatory  " 
found  by  Arnold,  the  "  inequality  "  very  plain  to 
Swinburne,  the  "  nonsense  "  apparent  to  Mr. 
Morley,  the  fact  remains  that  rarely  among  the 
noblest  poems  in  our  language  is  to  be  found  a 
composition  the  general  effect  of  which  is  so 
impressive.  At  once  a  dirge  and  a  song  of 
triumph,  this  ode  pours  forth  the  mystic  power 
that  "enricheth  the  blood  of  the  world." 

We  are  not  inclined  to  give  much  heed  to 
Southey,  these  days,  but  his  prediction  concern 
ing  Wordsworth  is  not  of  the  wildest  sort :  "  He 
will  probably  possess  a  mass  of  merits  superior 
to  all  except  only  Shakespeare."  A  mass  of 
merits  is  already  his  admitted  possession.  To 
carry  to  full  fruition  the  germs  that  sprouted  in 
Thomson  and  Crabbe  and  Cowper,  that  bloomed 
here  and  there  in  the  music  of  Burns ;  to  perfect 
the  overthrow  of  the  affectation,  the  stiltedness, 
the  rule-bound,  book-blind  monotony  of  the  last 
century;  to  enlarge  the  breathing  space  of  the 
i  soul,  to  make  morality  and  religion  more  attrac 
tive  than  the  pleasures  that  are  for  a  season ;  to 
chant  away  the  barriers  between  us  and  the  great 


William   Wordsworth.  2 1 7 

eternal  facts  and  beauties,  and  lead  us  by  sum 
mer  paths  into  the  realm  of  abiding  joy ;  to  build 
a  "  princely  throne  on  humble  truth";  to  stock 
a  very  heaven  with  the  "  simple  produce  of  the 
common  day"  ;  to  give  us  glimpses  that  make  us 
less  forlorn  not  only,  but  make  us  "  heirs  of  truth 
and  pure  delight,"  —  to  do  all  this  is  to  establish 
the  possession  of  a  "  mass  of  merits  " ;  and  if 
any  English  poet  has  accomplished  this,  it  is 
William  Wordsworth. 


XL 

A   FORGOTTEN   VOLUME. 

]N  American  edition  of  Lowth's  "Lectures 
on  the  Sacred  Poetry  of  the  Hebrews  " 
was  brought  out  by  Calvin  E.  Stowe, 
Andover,  1829.  A  writer  in  the  "  North  Ameri 
can  Review"  (v.  31,  1830),  commenting  on 
the  fact  that  the  edition  was  presented  with  an 
apology,  uses  these  words  :  — 

"  It  will  hereafter,  perhaps,  be  regarded  as  an  anom 
aly  in  the  history  of  the  human  intellect,  that  the 
poems  of  Homer  should  for  ages  have  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  profoundest  minds,  and  been  made 
for  a  time  almost  the  exclusive  object  of  criticism  in  all 
its  forms,  and  of  associated  inquiry  in  all  its  ten  thou 
sand  wanderings,  and  yet  that  the  Hebrew  writings 
of  the  inspired  volume,  though  equally  before  the 
eye  and  in  the  memory  of  men,  should  have  been 
long  passed  by  with  such  total  absence  of  everything 
like  an  attentive  study,  as  to  have  left  the  great  body 
of  the  most  learned  critics  completely  ignorant  of 
their  true  nature,  and  gravely  mistaking  their  poetry 
for  prose." 


A  Forgotten   Volume.  219 

Concerning  the  confusion  and  loss  consequent 
on  the  common  blindness,  the  reviewer  goes  on 
to  say, — 

"  The  evils  which  have  arisen  from  a  wrong  con 
ception  of  the  nature  of  so  great  a  portion  of  the 
inspired  writings  have  been  multiplied.  They  have 
been  the  occasion  of  almost  all  the  objections  of  in 
fidels  and  the  cavils  of  irreligious  men.  There  can 
not  be  a  doubt  that  just  in  proportion  as  the  Hebrew 
Scriptures,  especially  the  poetical  parts  of  them,  are 
keenly  and  critically  scrutinized,  such  objections  and 
such  cavils  will  utterly  fade  from  the  mind." 

There  is  much  truth  in  this ;  moreover,  re 
newed  warrant  for  preferring  Matthew  Arnold 
as  counsel  in  the  case  of  poetry.  He,  in  par 
ticular,  of  late  years,  has  had  the  discernment  and 
the  courage  to  declare  that  the  "  best  of  religion 
is  its  poetry  "  ;  and  to  him  more,  perhaps,  than 
to  another  the  people  owe  the  little  right-seeing 
that  they  begin  to  have  of  the  Old  Scriptures,  the 
straight  sight  that  takes  these  writings  as  they  were 
meant  and  for  what  they  are,  —  a  profound  "  criti 
cism  of  life  under  the  conditions  fixed  for  such  a 
criticism  by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic 
beauty."  The  ancient  Hebrews  had  the  lan 
guage,  the  land,  and  the  life  to  push  the  imagi 
nation  to  its  highest ;  of  which  fact  we  need  no 
further  proof  than  that,  after  the  waste  and  change 
of  centuries,  still  theirs  are  the  writings  that  men 


22O  That  Dome  in  Air. 

of  to-day  find  fullest  of  beauty  and  majesty, 
and  name  reverently  the  Sacred  Book,  The 
Book. 

The  views  of  Bishop  Lowth  concerning  Hebrew 
poetry  support  so  strongly,  point  by  point,  the 
views  of  the  present  writer  that  the  temptation 
is  strong  to  follow  him  in  this  particular  path ; 
but,  for  the  present,  let  us  quote  him  concerning 
the  first  great  principles  of  all  poetry  as  they 
have  come  down  to  us  on  the  long  authentic 
voice  of  the  ages.  First,  as  to  the  point  so  long 
blown  round  and  round  by  the  twisting  winds  of 
metaphysics,  whirling  up  new  difficulty  with  each 
circuit,  — 

"  Poetry  is  commonly  understood  to  have  two 
objects  in  view,  namely,  advantage  and  pleasure,  or 
rather  an  union  of  both.  I  wish  those  who  have 
furnished  us  with  this  definition  had  rather  proposed 
utility  as  its  ultimate  object,  and  pleasure  as  the 
means  by  which  that  end  may  be  effectually  accom 
plished.  The  philosopher  and  the  poet,  indeed, 
seem  principally  to  differ  in  the  means  by  which 
they  pursue  the  same  end.  Each  sustains  the  char 
acter  of  a  preceptor,  which  the  one  is  thought  best  to 
support,  if  he  teach  with  accuracy,  with  subtlety,  and 
with  perspicuity;  the  other,  with  splendor,  harmony, 
and  elegance.  The  one  makes  his  appeal  to  reason 
only,  independent  of  the  passions  ;  the  other  ad 
dresses  the  reason  in  such  a  manner  as  even  to  en 
gage  the  passions  on  his  side.  The  one  proceeds  to 
virtue  and  truth  by  the  nearest  and  most  compen- 


A  Forgotten   Volume.  221 

dious  ways  ;  the  other  leads  to  the  same  point  through 
certain  deflections  and  deviations,  by  a  winding  but 
pleasanter  path.  It  is  the  part  of  the  former  so  to 
describe  and  explain  these  objects  that  we  must 
necessarily  become  acquainted  with  them;  it  is  the 
part  of  the  latter  so  to  dress  and  adorn  them  that 
of  our  own  accord  we  must  love  and  embrace 
them. 

"  I  therefore  lay  it  down  as  a  fundamental  maxim 
that  poetry  is  useful,  chiefly  because  it  is  agreeable ; 
and  should  I,  as  we  are  apt  to  do,  attribute  too  much 
to  my  favorite  occupation,  I  trust  Philosophy  will 
forgive  me  when  I  add  that  the  writings  of  the  poet 
are  more  useful  than  those  of  the  philosopher,  inas 
much  as  they  are  more  agreeable  "  (p.  4). 

A  few  lines  farther  on,  is  asked  a  question  that 
should  be  no  more  readily  put  than  answered ; 
and  yet  there  is  no  end  of  hesitation  and  stam 
mering  when  it  comes,  for  example,  to  certain 
lines  of  Browning's,  — 

"  For  what  is  a  poet,  destitute  of  harmony,  of 
grace,  and  of  all  that  conduces  to  allurement  and 
delight?  .  .  .  The  reason,  therefore,  why  Poetry  is 
so  studious  to  embellish  her  precepts  with  a  certain 
inviting  sweetness,  and,  as  it  were, 

' .  .  .  tincture  them  with  the  honey  of  the  Muses,' 

is  plainly  by  such  seasoning  to  conciliate  favor  to 
her  doctrine,  as  is  the  practice  of  even  physicians, 
who  temper  with  pleasant  flavors  their  least  agree 
able  medicines : 


222  That  Dome  in  Air. 

'Thus,  the  sick  infant's  taste  disguis'd  to  meet, 
They  tinge  the  vessel's  brim  with  juices  sweet: 
The  bitter  draught  his  willing  lip  receives; 
He  drinks  deceiv'd,  and  so  deceiv'd  he  lives'; 

as  Lucretius  expresses  himself  in  illustration  of  his 
own  design,  as  well  as  that  of  poetry  in  general" 
(pp.  5,6).. 

And  now,  for  a  moment,  think  of  the  multitu 
dinous  definitions  and  decipherings,  divisions 
and  subdivisions,  —  all  the  painful  processes  of 
inquiry,  saddled  on  some  one  kind  or  style  of 
poetry,  we  will  say  the  heroic ;  what  is  the  gain 
if  this  much  be  not  settled  first  ? 

"  But  if  it  be  manifest,  even  in  authors  who  directly 
profess  improvement  and  advantage,  that  those  will 
most  efficaciously  instruct  who  afford  most  enter 
tainment,  the  same  will  be  still  more  apparent  in 
those  who,  dissembling  the  intention  of  instruction, 
exhibit  only  the  blandishments  of  pleasure  ;  and  while 
they  treat  of  the  most  important  things,  of  all 
the  principles  of  moral  action,  all  the  offices  of  life, 
yet  laying  aside  the  severity  of  the  preceptor,  adduce 
at  once  all  the  decorations  of  elegance  and  all  the 
attractions  of  amusement;  who  display,  as  in  a 
picture,  the  actions,  the  manners,  the  pursuits  and 
passions  of  men;  and  by  the  force  of  imitation  and 
fancy,  by  the  harmony  of  numbers,  by  the  taste  and 
variety  of  imagery,  captivate  the  affections  of  the 
reader,  and  imperceptibly,  or  perhaps  reluctantly, 
impel  him  to  the  pursuit  of  virtue.  Such  is  the  real 
purpose  of  heroic  poetry;  such  is  the  noble  effect 


A  Forgotten   Volume.  223 

produced  by  the  perusal  of  Homer.  .  .  .  From  phi 
losophy  a  few  cold  precepts  may  be  deduced;  in 
history,  some  dull  and  spiritless  examples  of  manners 
may  be  found :  here  we  have  the  energetic  voice  of 
Virtue  herself,  here  we  behold  her  animated  form. 
Poetry  addresses  her  precepts  not  to  the  reason  alone ; 
she  calls  the  passions  to  her  aid ;  she  not  only  ex 
hibits  examples,  but  infixes  them  in  the  mind.  She 
softens  the  wax  with  her  peculiar  ardour,  and  renders 
it  more  plastic  to  the  artist's  hand.  Thus  does 
Horace  most  truly  and  most  justly  apply  this  com 
mendation  to  the  poets  : 

'  What 's  fair,  and  false,  and  right,  these  bards  describe, 
Better  and  plainer  than  the  Stoic  tribe'"  (pp.  6,  7). 

If  we  are  to  form  a  just  notion  of  what  poetry 
is  through  the  instrumentality  of  critics,  this  is 
the  order  of  them  to  which  our  inquiries  should 
be  first  addressed.  "Poetry  is  the  supreme  of 
power "  :  Keats's  words  are  gospel  to  this  old 
bishop  and  the  good  old  minds  behind  him.  The 
inevitable  conclusion  stares  them  in  the  face. 
There  is  not  a  single  "if"  to  trip  over,  not  so 
much  as  a  "but  "  to  stumble  over.  So  with  the 
student  of  to-day  ;  he  will  find  the  way  clear  pro 
vided  he  turn  to  solid  counsellors.  Like  the 
solicitous  bishop  of  days  by-gone,  we  must  be 
content  only  with  the  best  intelligence  :  — 

"  Since  the  sensible  world,"  says  Bacon,  "  is  in 
dignity  inferior  to  the  rational  soul,  poetry  seems  to 
endow  human  nature  with  that  which  lies  beyond 


224  That  Dome  in  Air. 

the  power  of  history,  and  to  gratify  the  mind  with 
at  least  the  shadow  of  things  where  the  substance 
cannot  be  had.  For,  if  the  matter  be  properly  con 
sidered,  an  argument  may  be  drawn  from  poetry, 
that  a  superior  dignity  in  things,  a  more  perfect 
order,  and  a  more  beautiful  variety  delights  the  soul 
of  man,  than  is  found  in  nature  since  the  fall.  As, 
therefore,  the  actions  and  events  which  are  the 
subject  of  true  history  are  not  of  sufficient  amplitude 
to  content  the  mind  of  man ;  poetry  is  at  hand,  and 
invents  actions  of  a  more  heroic  nature.  Because 
true  history  reports  the  success  of  events  not  pro- 
portionably  to  desert,  or  according  to  the  virtue  or 
vice  that  has  been  displayed  in  them  ;  poetry  corrects 
this,  and  represents  events  and  fortunes  according 
to  justice  and  merit.  Because  true  history,  from 
the  obvious  similarity  of  actions,  and  the  satiety 
which  this  circumstance  must  occasion,  frequently 
creates  a  distaste  in  the  mind;  poetry  cheers  and 
refreshes  it,  exhibiting  things  uncommon,  varied, 
and  full  of  vicissitude.  As  poetry,  therefore,  con 
tributes  not  only  to  pleasure,  but  to  magnanimity  and 
good  morals,  it  is  deservedly  supposed  to  participate 
in  some  measure  of  Divine  inspiration;  since  it 
raises  the  mind  and  fills  it  with  sublime  ideas,  by 
proportioning  the  appearances  of  things  to  the 
desires  of  the  mind,  and  not  submitting  the  mind 
to  things,  like  reason  and  history  "  (p.  9). 

Had  Donnelly,  instead  of  playing  the  zany 
over  Shakespeare  and  Bacon,  instead  of  tinkering 
at  a  greater  man  than  the  Almighty  himself  was 
willing  to  set  his  hand  to,  spent  his  time  crying 


A  Forgotten   Volume.  225 

this  passage  up  and  down  the  streets,  he  would 
have  displayed  originality  meriting  something 
better  than  bread  and  water  and  shackles.  The 
most  of  us  have  read  this  passage  at  one  time  or 
another,  but  we  have  not  taken  it  and  other 
great  sayings  that  belong  with  it  to  our  business 
and  bosoms. 

As  in  heroic  poetry,  so  in  tragedy,  there  is  no 
escaping  the  conclusion  that  poetry  is  superior 
to  philosophy  as  well  as  to  history  :  — 

"  But  if  from  the  Heroic  we  turn  to  the  Tragic 
Muse,  to  which  Aristotle  indeed  assigns  the  prefer 
ence,  because  of  the  true  and  perfect  imitation,  we 
shall  yet  more  clearly  evince  the  superiority  of  poetry 
over  philosophy,  on  the  principle  of  its  being  more 
agreeable.  Tragedy  is,  in  truth,  no  other  than  phi 
losophy  introduced  upon  the  stage,  retaining  all  its 
natural  properties,  remitting  nothing  of  its  native 
gravity,  but  assisted  and  embellished  by  other  favour 
ing  circumstances.  What  point,  for  instance,  of 
moral  discipline  have  the  tragic  writers  of  Greece 
left  untouched  or  unadorned  ?  What  duty  of  life, 
what  principle  of  political  economy,  what  motive  or 
precept  for  the  government  of  the  passions,  what 
commendation  of  virtue  is  there  which  they  have  not 
treated  of  with  fulness,  variety,  and  learning?  .  .  . 

"  Should  it  be  objected  that  some  have  been  emi 
nent  in  this  walk  of  poetry  who  never  studied  in  the 
schools  of  the  philosophers  nor  enjoyed  the  advan 
tages  of  an  education  above  the  common  herd  of 
mankind,  I  answer  that  I  am  not  contending  about 


226  That  Dome  in  Air. 

the  vulgar  opinion,  or  concerning  the  meaning  of  a 
word.  The  man  who,  by  the  force  of  genius  and 
observation,  has  arrived  at  a  perfect  knowledge  of 
mankind ;  who  has  acquainted  himself  with  the  natu 
ral  powers  of  the  human  mind,  and  the  causes  by 
which  the  passions  are  excited  and  repressed;  who 
not  only  in  words  can  explain,  but  can  delineate  to 
the  senses,  every  emotion  of  the  soul;  who  can  excite, 
can  temper  and  regulate  the  passions  —  such  a  man, 
though  he  may  not  have  acquired  erudition  by  the 
common  methods,  I  esteem  a  true  philosopher.  The 
passion  of  jealousy,  its  causes,  circumstances,  its 
progress  and  effects,  I  hold  to  be  more  accurately, 
more  copiously,  more  satisfactorily  described  in  one 
of  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare  than  in  all  the  dispu 
tations  of  the  schools  of  philosophy. 

"  Now,  if  Tragedy  be  of  so  truly  a  philosophical 
nature  ;  and  if  to  all  the  force  and  gravity  of  wisdom 
it  add  graces  and  allurements  peculiarly  its  own,  — 
the  harmony  of  verse,  the  contrivance  of  the  fable, 
the  excellence  of  imitation,  the  truth  of  action  ;  shall 
we  not  say  that  philosophy  must  yield  to  poetry  in 
point  of  utility?  or  shall  we  not  rather  say  that  the 
former  is  greatly  indebted  to  the  latter,  of  whose 
assistance  and  recommendation  it  makes  so  advan 
tageous  a  use,  in  order  to  attain  its  particular 
purpose,  utility,  or  improvement?"  (pp.  7,  8.) 

The  wise  old  bishop  will  press  on  beyond  most 
travellers  of  to-day  when  it  comes  to  distinguish 
ing  between  the  inspiration  of  Shakespeare  and 
that  of  the  author  of  "  Job  "  ;  but  so  far  as  we 
can  accompany  him  his  words  are  certainly  worth 


A  Forgotten   Volume.  227 

whole  shelves  of  modern  books  on  the  subject  of 
poetry. 

"  But,  after  all,  we  shall  think  more  humbly  of 
poetry  than  it  deserves,  unless  we  direct  our  atten 
tion  to  that  quarter  where  its  importance  is  most 
eminently  conspicuous  ;  unless  we  contemplate  it  as 
employed  on  sacred  subjects  and  in  subservience  to 
religion.  This  indeed  appears  to  have  been  the 
original  office  and  destination  of  poetry  ;  and  this  it 
still  so  happily  performs  that  in  all  other  cases  it 
seems  out  of  character,  as  if  intended  for  this  pur 
pose  alone.  In  other  instances  poetry  appears  to 
want  the  assistance  of  art,  but  in  this  to  shine  forth 
with  all  its  natural  splendour,  or  rather  to  be  ani 
mated  by  that  inspiration  which,  on  other  occasions, 
is  spoken  of  without  being  felt.  These  observations 
are  remarkably  exemplified  in  the  Hebrew  poetry, 
than  which  the  human  mind  can  conceive  nothing 
more  elevated,  more  beautiful,  or  more  elegant ;  in 
which  the  almost  ineffable  sublimity  of  the  subject  is 
fully  equalled  by  the  energy  of  the  language  and  the 
dignity  of  the  style.  And  it  is  worthy  observation 
that  as  some  of  these  writings  exceed  in  antiquity 
the  fabulous  ages  of  Greece,  in  sublimity  they  are 
superior  to  the  most  finished  productions  of  that  pol 
ished  people.  Thus,  if  the  actual  origin  of  poetry 
be  inquired  after,  it  must  of  necessity  be  referred  to 
religion ;  and  since  it  appears  to  be  an  art  derived 
from  nature  alone,  peculiar  to  no  age  or  nation,  and 
only  at  an  advanced  period  of  society  conformed  to 
rule  and  method,  it  must  be  wholly  attributed  to  the 
more  violent  affections  of  the  heart,  the  nature  of 
which  is  to  express  themselves  in  an  animated  and 


228  That  Dome  in  Air. 

lofty   tone,   with  a    vehemence    of    expression    far 
remote  from  vulgar  use  "  (p.    18). 

Whatever  our  religious  belief,  we  can  agree 
with  this;  and  in  the  agreement  we  shall  go 
a  long  way  toward  settling  contention  and  con 
fusion,  toward  preventing  waste  of  time  over  com 
mentators  as  injurious  as  ingenious,  as  delusive 
as  voluminous. 

This  critic  of  great  poetry  will  not  be  found 
scorning  the  small  poetry.  So  thoroughly  is  he 
at  home  in  the  art  that  he  can  unbend  with  all 
the  grace  and  fervor  of  Jean  Paul  to  dwell 
fondly  on  the  precious  lyrics  of  slender  theme, 
the  little  wafts  of  fancy,  the  fitful  breaths  of  bird- 
like  melody,  which  charm  in  moments  of  mirth 
or  idleness, — 

"  Not  entirely  to  omit  the  lighter  kinds  of  poetry, 
many  will  think  that  we  allow  them  full  enough 
when  we  suppose  their  utility  to  consist  in  the  enter 
tainment  which  they  afford.  Nor  is  this  altogether 
to  be  despised  if  it  be  considered  that  this  entertain 
ment,  this  levity  itself,  affords  relaxation  to  the  mind 
when  wearied  with  laborious  investigation  of  truth  ; 
that  it  unbends  the  understanding  after  intense  ap 
plication  ;  restores  it  when  debilitated  ;  and  refreshes 
it,  even  by  an  interchange  and  variety  of  study.  In 
this  we  are  countenanced  by  the  example  and 
authority  of  the  greatest  men  of  Greece,  by  that  of 
Solon,  Plato,  and  Aristotle ;  among  the  Romans,  by 
that  of  Scipio  and  Leelius,  Julius  and  Augustus 


A  Forgotten    Volume.  229 

Caesar,  Varro  and  Brutus,  who  filled  up  the  intervals 
of  their  more  important  engagements,  their  severer 
studies,  with  the  agreeableness  and  hilarity  of  this 
poetical  talent.  Nature  indeed  seems  in  this  most 
wisely  to  have  consulted  for  us,  who,  while  she 
impels  us  to  the  knowledge  of  truth,  which  is  fre 
quently  remote,  and  only  to  be  prosecuted  with 
indefatigable  industry,  has  provided  also  these  pleas 
ing  recreations  as  a  refuge  to  the  mind,  in  which  it 
might  occasionally  shelter  itself,  and  find  an  agree 
able  relief  from  languor  and  anxiety  "  (p.  15). 

The  critic  that  so  finds  can  go  further;  can 
find  that  the  practice  as  well  as  the  reading 
of  poetry  is  essential  as  a  means  of  culture,  — 

"  But  there  is  yet  a  further  advantage  to  be  derived 
from  these  studies,  which  ought  not  to  be  neglected  ; 
for,  beside  possessing  in  reserve  a  certain  solace  of 
your  labours,  from  the  same  repository  you  will  also 
be  supplied  with  many  of  the  brightest  ornaments  of 
literature.  The  first  object  is,  indeed,  to  perceive 
and  comprehend  clearly  the  reasons,  principles,  and 
relations  of  things  ;  the  next  is,  to  be  able  to  explain 
your  conceptions,  not  only  with  perspicuity,  but 
with  a  degree  of  elegance.  For  in  this  respect  we 
are  all  of  us  in  some  measure  fastidious.  We  are 
seldom  contented  with  a  jejune  and  naked  exposition 
even  of  the  most  serious  subjects ;  some  of  the 
seasonings  of  art,  some  ornaments  of  style,  some 
splendour  of  diction,  are  of  necessity  to  be  adopted  ; 
even  some  regard  is  due  to  the  harmony  of  numbers 
and  to  the  gratification  of  the  ear.  In  all  these 
respects,  though  I  grant  that  the  language  of  poetry 


230  That  Dome  in  Air. 

differs  very  widely  from  that  of  all  other  kinds  of 
composition,  yet  he  who  has  bestowed  some  time 
and  attention  on  the  perusal  and  imitation  of  the 
poets  will,  I  am  persuaded,  find  his  understanding 
exercised  and  improved  as  it  were  in  this  Palaestra, 
the  vigour  and  activity  of  his  imagination  increased, 
and  even  his  manner  of  expression  to  have  insen 
sibly  acquired  a  tinge  from  this  elegant  intercourse. 
Thus  we  observe  in  persons  who  have  been  taught 
to  dance,  a  certain  indescribable  grace  and  manner ; 
though  they  do  not  form  their  common  gesture  and 
gait  by  any  certain  rules,  yet  there  results  from  that 
exercise  a  degree  of  elegance  which  accompanies 
those  who  have  been  proficients  in  it  even  when  they 
have  relinquished  the  practice.  Nor  is  it  the  least, 
improbable  that  both  Caesar  and  Tully  (the  one  the 
most  elegant,  the  other  the  most  eloquent  of  the 
Romans)  might  have  derived  considerable  assistance 
from  the  cultivation  of  this  branch  of  polite  litera 
ture,  since  it  is  well  known  that  both  of  them  were 
addicted  to  the  reading  of  poetry,  and  even  exer 
cised  in  the  composition  of  it.  This  too  is  so  appar 
ent  in  the  writings  of  Plato  that  he  is  thought  not 
only  to  have  erred  in  his  judgment,  but  to  have 
acted  an  ungrateful  part,  when  he  excluded  from  his 
imaginary  commonwealth  that  art  to  which  he  was 
so  much  indebted  for  the  splendour  and  elegance 
of  his  genius,  from  whose  fountains  he  had  derived 
that  soft,  copious,  and  harmonious  style  for  which 
he  is  so  justly  admired  "  (pp.  15-17). 

Blessed  old  bishop !  Poetry  is  serviceable 
even  as  a  sort  of  Delsarte  practice  for  the  mind 
and  heart. 


A  Forgotten    Volume.  231 

Verily  the  Oxford  boys  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago  had  a  decided  advantage  over  their 
successors  of  to-day.  Were  the  present  time  as 
favorable  to  poetry  as  theirs,  we  should  hear  not 
a  word,  for  instance,  of  the  warfare  between 
Poetry  and  Science,  —  Science  which  the  enlight 
ened  Tyndall  terms  Poetry's  "  younger  sister  "  ; 
not  a  syllable  would  be  lisped  on  such  a  topic  as 
"Is  Verse  in  Danger?"  The  good  bishop 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  doubting  the 
existence  of  the  soul  and  the  High  Power  on 
which  it  leans  as  of  questioning  the  imperisha 
bility  of  song,  —  song,  which  has  taught  us  the 
most  we  know  of  these. 

With  this  peep  into  a  forgotten  volume,  it 
remains  but  to  commend  it  to  young  and  old,  to 
all  ranks  and  classes  from  shoeblack  to  scholar ; 
to  commend  it  for  a  better  understanding  of  the 
Scriptures  and  for  advancement  in  knowledge  con 
cerning  the  ruling  force,  the  "  supreme  of  power," 
poetry. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Bishop  Lowth  began  lecturing  in  1741,  one 
hundred  and  fifty-eight  years  after  Sidney  wrote 
his  "  Defence  of  Poesy."  A  few  quotations  from 
Sidney  will  show,  without  argument,  that  the  old 
notion  of  poetry  was  transmitted  intact,  and  so 
held  till  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century. 


232  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  This  heart-ravishing  knowledge  "  is  one  of  his 
expressions  ;  another  is,  "  That  unspeakable  and 
everlasting  beauty  to  be  seen  by  the  eyes  of  the 
mind."  The  purpose  of  poetry  is  "  to  teach  and 
delight " ;  poetry  is  the  "  sweet  food  of  sweetly 
uttered  knowledge."  The  poet  "doth  not  only 
show  the  way,  but  giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect  into 
the  way  as  will  entice  any  man  to  enter  into  it." 

Eighty  years  later,  in  Shelley's  "Defense  of 
Poetry,"  we  find  the  old  notion  getting  dim. 
If  Shelley  be  right  when  he  says,  "  The  distinc 
tion  between  poets  and  prose  writers  is  a  vulgar 
error,"  Sidney's  exposition  is  without  mean 
ing;  there  is  no  substance  in  his  firm  phrase, 
"  that  same  exquisite  observance  of  number  and 
measure  in  words,  and  that  high-flying  liberty  of 
conceit  proper  to  the  poet."  Taken  in  the  half- 
sense,  there  is  truth  in  Shelley's  blunt  statement, 
and  in  Sidney's  "  there  have  been  many  most  ex 
cellent  poets  that  never  versified  "  ;  but  taken  in 
the  whole  sense,  both  observations  are  mislead 
ing.  We  cannot  have  poetry  proper  without  the 
poet's  vision  and  method  and  music,  — 

"...  The  numbers  which  could  call 
The  stones  into  the  Theban  wall." 

Shelley  would  have  it  that  the  aim  of  the  poet 
is,  not  to  "  teach  and  delight,"  but  to  delight. 
He  says, — 


A  Forgotten    Volume.  233 

"Those  in  whom  the  poetical  faculty,  though 
great,  is  less  intense,  as  Euripides,  Lucan,  Tasso, 
Spenser,  have  frequently  affected  a  moral  aim,  and 
the  effect  of  their  poetry  is  diminished  in  exact  pro 
portion  to  the  degree  in  which  they  compel  us  to 
advert  to  this  purpose." 

Teaching  and  compelling  us  to  advert  to  the 
teaching  are  very  different  things.  The  poet 
teaches  and  delights,  —  delights  because  he  does 
not  compel  us  to  advert  to  his  purpose,  but 
effects  it  while,  in  our  delight,  we  are  uncon 
scious  of  what  he  is  really  doing. 

Again  Shelley  says,  — 

"  And  this  bold  neglect  of  a  direct  moral  purpose 
is  the  most  decisive  proof  of  the  supremacy  of 
Milton's  genius." 

On  Milton's  intent  it  is  safe  to  take  the  testi 
mony  of  Milton  himself,  — 

"...  What  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine;  what  is  low  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men." 

If  Shelley  meant  that  the  poet  should  not  use 
the  prose  teacher's  method,  he  is  right ;  if  he 
meant  more  than  this,  —  and  probably  he  did, 
—  he  is  wrong.  The  great  poets,  as  we  have 
learned  from  Bishop  Lowth,  "dissembling  the 
intention  of  instruction,"  exhibiting  "  only  the 


234  That  Dome  in  Air. 

blandishments  of  pleasure,"  still  "  treat  of  the 
most  important  things,  of  all  the  offices  of  life." 
However,  Shelley's  testimony,  taken  as  a  whole, 
is  a  sufficient  answer  to  any  errant  portion  of 
it;  — 

'*  But  it  exceeds  all  imagination  to  conceive  what 
would  have  been  the  moral  condition  of  the  world 
if  neither  Dante,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  Chaucer, 
Shakespeare,  Calderon,  Lord  Bacon,  nor  Milton, 
had  ever  existed ;  if  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo 
had  never  been  born ;  if  the  Hebrew  poetry  had 
never  been  translated ;  if  a  revival  of  the  study 
of  Greek  literature  had  never  taken  place ;  if  no 
monuments  of  ancient  sculpture  had  been  handed 
down  to  us  ;  and  if  the  poetry  of  the  religion  of  the 
ancient  world  had  been  extinguished  together  with 
its  belief.  .  .  .  Poets  are  the  unacknowledged  legis 
lators  of  the  world." 

Coming  down  seventy  years,  from  1821  to 
1891,  it  may  be  profitable  to  inquire  briefly  into 
the  success  of  Mr.  Theodore  Watts's  attack  on 
the  old  notion  of  poetry  as  formulated  by  Arnold. 
In  his  article  on  Lowell  (The  Athen&um,  August 
22,  1891)  Mr.  Watts  says, — 

"  It  is  always  difficult  to  know  when  Matthew 
Arnold  is  in  earnest  and  when  he  is  playing  with  his 
readers ;  but  if  he  was  in  earnest  when  he  defined 
poetry  to  be  a '  criticism  of  life,'  he  certainly  achieved 
in  one  famous  phrase  a  definition  of  poetry  which  for 
whimsical  perversity  can  never  be  surpassed.  Had 


A  Forgotten   Volume.  235 

he  said  the  opposite  of  this,  —  had  he  said  that  all 
pure  literature  except  poetry  may  be  a  criticism  of 
life,  but  that  poetry  must  be  a  simple  projection  of 
life  in  order  for  it  to  be  separated  from  prose,  —  he 
might  perhaps  have  got  nearer  to  the  truth." 

If  Mr.  Watts,  with  all  his  acuteness,  is  not 
keen  enough  to  discover  when  Arnold  is  in  ear 
nest  and  when  he  is  at  play,  we  must  not  blame 
him  for  being  blind  to  very  plain  things ;  among 
them,  the  flippancy  and  padding,  the  newspaper 
recklessness,  sometimes  displayed  in  the  columns 
of  the  Athenceum.  In  this  article  we  are  in 
formed  at  the  first  dash  that  most  Americans 
lack  "  moral,  high-bred  courage."  This  may  be  ; 
but  some  of  us  have  enough  patience  and  cour 
tesy  to  hear  a  speaker  through  before  beginning 
to  dispute  him.  Arnold  did  not  define  poetry  as 
a  "  criticism  of  life,"  but  as  a  "  criticism  of  life 
under  the  conditions  fixed  for  such  a  criticism 
by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty  "  ; 
as  a  " powerful  application  of  ideas  to  life"  under 
the  conditions  fixed  by  these  laws.  In  exempli 
fying  this  application,  he  says  that  it  has  the 
accent  of  such  a  line  as, — 

"Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile  "  ; 

an  injunction  to  which  Mr.  Watts  seems  to  have 
yielded  temporary  obedience.  Mr.  Watts  goes 
on  to  say,  — 


236  That  Dome  in  Air. 

"  If  there  is  in  any  literary  work  a  true  projection 
of  life,  it  must  sometimes  be  classed  as  poetry,  even 
though  the  writer  shows  but  an  imperfect  conception 
of  poetic  art.  Although  much  of  Browning's  noble 
and  brilliant  writing  is  a  '  criticism  of  life,'  and  is, 
therefore,  as  I  think,  not  poetry,  a  very  considerable 
portion  of  his  work  is  poetry,  because  it  is  a  true 
projection,  and  not  a  criticism,  of  life.  But  Lowell's 
verse  is  all  'criticism  of  life.'  Of  poetic  projection 
there  is  almost  nothing  at  all." 

While  Mr.  Watts  is  right  in  saying  that  much 
of  Browning's  writing  is  not  poetry  (he  goes 
altogether  too  far  in  finding  "  almost  nothing  " 
of  poetry  in  Lowell),  how  is  it  that,  with  his  mind 
and  experience,  and  Anglo-moral  courage  to  top 
it  all,  he  does  not  see  that,  instead  of  combating 
Arnold's  idea,  he  is  reproducing  it  in  less  happy 
words  of  his  own  ?  In  saying  that,  because  much 
of  Browning's  work  is  rather  a  criticism  than  a 
"  projection "  of  life,  it  is  something  different 
from  poetry,  he  is  simply  saying  what  Arnold 
says  better ;  namely,  that  it  is  something  different 
from  poetry  because  it  has  not  the  "  matter  and 
the  inseparable  manner  "  of  "  adequate  poetic 
criticism." 


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U.  S.  A.  Crown  8vo.,  231  pages,  with  maps.  $1.50. 

*  *  Valuable  as  the  book  is  as  a  treatise  on 
strategy,  its  worth  in  this  respect  is  far  surpassed 
by  its  value  as  a  life-like  portrayal  of  Napoleon, 
not  only  the  strategist  and  the  tactician,  but  the 
general  "heaven  born." — Times,  London,  Eng. 

The  Eye  in  Its  Relation  to  Health.     By 

Chalmer  Prentice,  M.  D.     Crown  8vo.    $1.30. 

One  need  not  be  a  physician  to  recognize  the 
merits  of  a  new  book  entitled  "  The  Eye  in  its  Rela 
tion  to  Health,"  —  those  who  are  interested  in  this 
vital  subject  will  profit  by  looking  through  its  pages. 
The  author  is  evidently  well  informed  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  his  views  seem  to  be  based  on  common 
sense.  —  New  York  Herald. 

Government  &   Co.,  Limited.      Being  an 

Examination  of  the  Tendencies  of  Privilege  in 
the  United  States.  By  Horatio  W.  Seymour,  idmo, 
14.8  pages,  fj;  cents. 

A  more  spirited  attack,  protest  more  glowing,  in 
vective  more  bitter,  never  was  called  forth  by  what 
this  author  is  profoundly  convinced  are  the  iniqui 
ties  and  cruelties  of  protection.  *  *  He  maintains 
throughout  a  high  level  of  eloquence.  His  abso 
lute  sincerity  cannot  be  questioned.  If  ever  a 
writer  felt  his  sentences,  it  is  he. — Post,  Chicago. 

The    Wonderful    Wapentake.    By  J.  S. 

Fletcher.  Illustrated  by  J.  Ayton  Symington. 
Crown  8vo.,  250  pages,  deckle  edges.  $2.00. 

The  "Wonderful  Wapentake"  is  a  minor  division 
of  Yorkshire,  a  picturesque  region  of  country  with 
century-old  farmhouses  and  people  as  old  fashioned 
as  any  that  Thomas  Hardy  ever  delineated  in  his 
novels.  The  author's  love  of  nature  was  strength 
ened  by  his  country  life,  and  his  descriptions  of  the 
people,  their  manners  and  customs,  and  of  the 
country  itself,  are  peculiarly  vivid  and  attractive. — 
Transcript,  Boston. 


RECENT  PUBLICATIONS. 

Paul  and  Virginia.  By  Bernardin  de  Saint- 
Pierre.  Translated  from  the  French  by  Professor 
Melville  B.  Anderson.  i6mo.,  218 pages.  $1.00. 

The  first  really  acceptable  English  translation 
that  has  ever  been  made.  In  its  present  form,  the 
reader  ignorant  of  French  may  for  the  first  time 
understand  why  the  work  has  so  undisputed  a  rank 
among  the  classics.  Heretofore  he  has  had  to  take 
the  statement  on  faith. — Dial,  Chicago. 

Things  of  the  Mind.     By  the  Rt.  Rev.  J.  L. 

Spalding,  Bishop  of  Peoria.   121110.,  237  pages.    $1.00. 

What  Bishop  Spalding  says  of  culture  and  religion 
is  well  worth  reading  and  the  little  discourse  on 
patriotism  is  admirable  in  every  way — a  sincere 
and  eloquent  plea  for  the  attainment  of  the  higher 
citizenship.  It  is  a  volume  that  should  be  widely 
known. — Beacon,  Boston. 

The  Power  of  an  Endless  Life.    By  the 

Rev.  Thomas  C.  Hall.     i6mo.,  iqo  pages.     $1.00. 

These  sermons  are  dignified  in  tone  and  impres 
sive  in  form.  Their  earnestness  is  one  of  their 
main  qualities.  They  are  clear  and  impressive. 
They  are  full  of  good  ideas  and  they  arouse  good 
thoughts. — Journal,  Milwaukee. 

The  Price  of  Peace.    A  Story  of  the  Times 

of  Ahab,  King  of  Israel.     By    A.    W.    Ackerman. 
i2ino.,  390  pages.     $1.25. 

The  hero  is  Micaiah,  son  of  Imlah,  a  contempo 
rary  of  Elijah.  The  period  is  the  most  picturesque 
in  the  history  of  the  ancient  Jewish  people,  and  the 
author  has  written  a  religious  narrative  of  more 
than  ordinary  interest. — Sun,  Baltimore. 


For  sale  by  booksellers  generally,  or  -will  be  sent,  post- 
paid,  on  receipt  of  the  price,  by  the  publishers, 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  CHICAGO. 


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